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STATE  HOHuu^  .u-.^ut, 

Lot  Ao£(tiee,  CaL 

Aitcient  Classics  for  English  Readers 

EDITED   BY   THE 

REV.  W.   LUCAS   COLLINS.  M.A. 


SOPHOCLES 


CONTENTS    OF    THE    SERIES. 


HOMER  :  THE  ILIAD Bt  the  Editor. 

HOMER:  THE  ODYSSEY,  .        .        .  By  the  Same, 

HERODOTUS,        .        .       .       Bv  George  C.  Swayne,  M.A. 

CiESAR,  ..,•..  By  Anthony  Trollope. 

VIRGIL, By  the  Editor. 

HORACE,       ......    By  Theodore  Martin. 

iESCHYLUS,      By  the  Right  Rev.  the  Bishop  of  Colombo. 

XENOPHON,         .        .     By  Sir  Alex.  Grant'  Bart.,  LL.D. 

CICERO By  the  Editor. 

SOPHOCLES,         ...      By  Clifton  W.  Collins,  M.A. 

PLINY,  By  a.  Church,  M.A.,  and  W.  J.  Brodribb,  M.A. 

EURIPIDES-  ...        By  William  Bodham  Donne. 

JUVENAL,      ....         By  Edward  Walford,  M.A. 

ARISTOPHANES By  the  Editor. 

HESIOD  AND  THEOGNIS,  By  THE  REV.  James  Davies,  M.A. 

PLAUTUS  AND  TERENCE,  ...  By  the  Editor. 
*  TACITUS,      ....       By  William  Bodham  Donne. 

LUCIAN By  the  Editor. 

PLATO, By  Clifton  W.  Collins. 

THE  GREEK  ANTHOLOGY,  .  .  .,  By.  Lord  Neaves, 
f   t  S'l  •^cl.tWs  'U      ^^  ''^''.      '.     '^^\,.'.  ,    V    %^' ^ %  THE  Editor. 

OVID, By  the  Rev.  A-.  Church,  M.A. 

I  ''\  c  't:A'tU}^^US,cTI^i:'i^Llisr4  PRO'^E^TtUS^B^i.  Davies,  M.A. 
'    '    '    bfelV^O'STHENES,  .        .    By  the  Rev.  W.  J.  Brodribb,  M.A, 

ARISTOTLE,  ...    By  Sir  Alex.  Grant,  Bart.,  LL.D. 

THUCYDIDES By  the  Editor. 

LUCRETIUS,  .  .  .  .  By  W.  H.  Mallock,  M.A. 
PINDAR,        ...       By  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Morice,  M.A- 


SOPH  OGLES 


BT 


CLIFTON  W.  COLLINS.  M.A., 

ILH.  INSPBCTOK  OF  SCHOOLS. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPING OTT    &  CO. 

1882. 


CONTENTS, 


PAOR 
CHAP.      r.   INTKODUCTIOK,       .....'•  1 

^     II         II.    (EDIPUS  THE   KING, 20 

V.    N       III.    (EDIPUS  AT  COLONUS, 45 

"   n        IV.   ANTIGONE,     , .70 

n          T.   THE  DEATH   OF  AJAX, 98 

II  VI.   THE  MAIDENS   OF  TKACHIS,  .           .           ,           ,  123 

II  VII.    PHILOCTETES,         ......  136 

^    It  VIU.   ELECTKA,       .••••••  162 


The  Writer  desires  to  express  his  actnowledgments 
to  Professor  Plumptre  for  permission  to  make  use  of 
his  translation  of  these  tragedies ;  and  to  Mr  D'Arcy 
Thompson  for  a  similar  courtesy  in  the  case  of  his 
'  Sales  Attici.' 

Use  has  also  been  made  of  M.  Patin's  '  Studies  on 
Sophocles,'  Mr  Jebb's  edition  of  the  '  Ajax  and  Electra/ 
and  the  last  chapter  of  Lord  Lytton's  '  Athens.' 

Of  the  translations,  those  marked  (A.)  are  by  the 
late  Professor  Anstice ;  those  marked  (D.)  are  by 
Dale ;  and  those  distinguished  by  (P.)  are  from  Pro- 
fessor Plumptre's  translation,  to  which  reference  haa 
been  made  above. 


SOPHOCLES. 


CHAPTEE    I. 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  materials  for  our  poet's  life  are  few  and  untrust- 
worthy. The  real  biographies  have  perished ;  and  all  that 
we  have  in  their  place  is  a  brief  anonymous  memoir, 
some  notices  in  Suidas,  and  a  few  anecdotes  retailed  to 
us  from  difi'erent  sources  by  Athenaius,  the  great  col- 
lector of  the  scandal  and  gossip  of  his  day — and  these 
last  probably  belong  to  the  mock  pearls  of  history. 
The  mere  attempt,  then,  to  compile  a  detailed  life  of 
Sophocles  out  of  this  "  rubbish  heap  of  tradition,"  is 
(to  use  Professor  Plumptre's  illustration)  like  "  making 
bricks  without  straw."  As  in  the  case  of  Shakspeare, 
we  know  little  of  the  man  except  what  we  can  glean 
from  his  writings.  Some  few  facts,  however,  rest  on 
,liigher  testimony;  and  these  may  be  shortly  noticed. 

Colonus,  a  small  village  about  a  mile  to  the  north  of 
Athens,  was  the  birthplace  of  Sophocles ;  and  every 
feature  of  its  scenery  has  been  vividly  described  by 
liim  in  a  famous  choral  ode,  to  be  hereafter  noticed. 

A.  c.  vol.  X.  A 


2  SOPHOCLES. 

The  landscape  must  have  been  strikingly  picturesque, 
with  its  "white  limestone  cliffs,  its  dark  grove  sacred  to 
"  the  gentle  goddesses,"  and  echoing  with  "  all  throats 
that  gurgle  sweet,"  with  the  pure  clear  stream  of  the 
Cephisus,  never  failing  in  the  hottfet  summer,  and. 
watering  this  garden  of  Attica. 

AVhatever  may  have  been  his  father's  calling,  Sopho- 
cles was  himself  a  gentleman.  "  His  natural  gifts," 
says  Lord  Lytton,  "  were  the  rarest  that  nature  be- 
stows on  man,  genius  and  beauty."  Body  and  mind 
were  carefully  trained  under  the  best  masters ;  and  he 
received  the  complete  liberal  education  of  his  age. 
We  can  imagine  how  the  boy  grew  up  to  manhood, 
feeding  his  poetic  fancy  with  those  ancient  founts  of 
inspiration, — the  adventures  of  the  Argonauts  or  the 
"  tale  of  Troy  divine ; "  just  as  the  genius  of  Spenser  and 
]\Iilton  was  nourished  on  the  old  romances  of  our 
country.  We  can  imagine,  too,  how  he  must  have 
been  inspired  Avith  the  eternal  ideas  of  truth  and 
beauty — wafted,  as  in  Plato's  State,-  "  like  gales  of 
health  blowing  fresh  from  salubrious  lands,"  * — by  the 
constant  sight  and  presence  of  that  noble  city,  robed 
in  her  "  imperial  mantle  of  architecture,"  adorned  by 
the  paintings  of  Pansenus  and  by  the  sculpture  of 
Phidias, — her  streets  crowded  with  strangers  from  all 
lands,  and  her  harbours  filled  with  the  masts  of  a 
thousand  triremes. 

Sophocles  made  an  early  entrance  on  public  life.  At 
the  age  of  sixteen  his  grace  and  beauty  were  such  that 
he  Avas  selected  from  the  youth  of  Attica  to  lead  the 
*  Rcpubl.  iii.  401. 


INTRODUCTION.  3 

choral  dance  around  the  altar  whicli  had  heen  raised 
in  honour  of  the  victory  of  Salaniis.  Ten  years  later, 
we  find  him  coining  forward  as  the  rival  of  yEschylus 
at  the  great  festival  of  Bacchus,  at  which  the  prizes  lor 
tragedy  were  aAvarded.  Ciuion  and  his  nine  colleagues 
had  just  returned  from  Samos,' bringing  with  them  the 
bones  of  Theseus,  whicli  were  to  serve  as  a  talisman 
against  plague  and  pestilence.  The  generals  entered 
the  theatre  just  before  the  commencement  of  the  per- 
formances, and  the  Archon,  estimating  rightly  the 
greatness  of  the  occasion,  swore  them  in  to  judge  the 
case  between  the  rival  dramatists.  They  unanimously 
awarded  the  first  prize  to  Sophocles ;  and  yEschylus, 
it  is  said,  in  deep  resentment  of  their  verdict,  left 
Athens,  and  retired  to  the  court  of  Hiero  at  Syracuse. 

A  first  success  is  everything  in  literature ;  and  So- 
phocles, like  others,  found  himself  famous  in  a  day. 
For  more  than  forty  years  he  continued  to  exhibit 
plays— sometimes  winning  the  first  prize,  sometimes 
defeated  in  his  turn  by  some  younger  candidate  for 
fame,  but  never  once  degraded  to  the  third  place.  So 
prolific  was  his  genius,  that  he  is  said  to  have  composed 
upwards  of  a  hundred  tragedies.  Of  these  but  seven 
are  extant. 

He  had  inherited  a  moderate  income,  and  it  is  said 
this  indctpendence  was  necessary  to  the  poet,  for  custom 
and  etiquette  prevented  him  from  making  money  by 
his  plays.  "  The  crown  of  wild  olive  "  was  the  only 
stimulus  to  genius ;  for  the  "  tAvo  obols  "  paid  by  each 
citizen  for  admission  went  to  the  lessees  of  the  theatre, 
and  served  to  defray  the  necessary  expense  of  scenery 


4  SOPHOCLES. 

and  decorations,  as  well  as  to  pay  the  actors.  The 
Greek  would  have  regarded  with  the  same  disfavour 
the  tragedian  who  made  a  profit  on  Ids  plays,  as  the 
Sophist  who  might  (as  many  of  them  in  fact  did)  take 
money  for  his  lectures,  or  the  statesman  who  should 
accept  salary  or  pension  for  what  should  have  been  a 
labour  of  love.*  All  such  sordid  gains,  they  held, 
should  be  left  to  the  base-born  mechanic ;  no  gentle- 
man should  degrade  his  profession  to  the  level  of  a 
trade.  In  the  case  of  the  poet,  who  was  supposed 
to  receive  his  inspiration  direct  from  heaven,  it  would 
have  been  simple  profanation  to  sell,  as  it  were,  the 
very  bread  of  life.  It  was  sufficient  glory  and  recom- 
pense, for  him  if  the  State — or  some  rich  citizen  repre- 
senting the  State — should  defray  the  expenses  of  a 
Chorus,  that  he  might  "  see  his  poetry  put  into  action 
—assisted  with  all  the  pomp  of  spectacle  and  music, 
hallowed  by  the  solemnity  of  a  religious  festival,  and 
breathed,  by  artists  elaborately  trained  to  heighten 
the  eloquence  of  wbrds,  into  the  ear  of  assembled 
Greece."  t 

Like  every  other  Athenian,  Sophocles  was  a  poli- 
tician, and  he  took  his  part  in  the  stirring  scenes  of 

*  We  may  judge  how  mercenary,  in  a  Greek  point  of  view, 
woiild  have  seeuied  such  an  exlul)ition  as  that  of  tlie  Ro3'al 
Academy,  from  the  analogous  case  of  Zeuxis,  the  Slillais  of  his 
day,  who  exhibited  his  picture  of  Helen,  and  took  money  at  the 
doors. "  Crowds  flocked  to  see  the  painting,  and  the  painter 
cleared  a  large  sum — but  the  name  of  '  Helen  '  Avas  changed  by 
a  satirical  public  to  'The  Courtesan.'  (See  St  John,  Mauuers 
and  Customs  of  Ancient  Greece,  i.  303.) 

t  Lord  Lytton's  Athens,  ii.  516. 


y 


INTRODUCTION.  5 

public  life,  personally  serving  in  more  than  one  cam- 
paign. But  public  life  palled  upon  him,  as  it  palls 
on  every  ardent  and  enthusiastic  character.  His 
( temper  was  too  gentle  and  his  principles  too  chivalrous 
V  ,  Ifor  him  to  grapple  with  the  unscrupulous  party  spirit 
'  '  \)i  the  times,  Not  even  the  charm  of  a  friendship 
with  Pericles,  or  the  honour  of  a  statesman's  position, 
could  console  him  for  the  loss  of  literary  ease;  and 
we  can  understand  how  gladly  he  must  have  left  the 
restless  and  busy  Athens  for  the  peaceful  and  lovely 
scenery  of  Colonus.  There,  like  Pope  on  his  lawn 
at  Twickenham,  like  Wordsworth  in  the  solitude  of 
Grasmere, — or,  to  use  a  more  classical  illustration,  like 
Horace  at  his  Sabine  farm, — he  Avas  free  to  follow  the 
bent  of  his  genius,  and  to  draw  from  nature  his  purest 
and  most  perfect  picture  of  a  Greek  landscape. 

Yet  the  scenes  which  he  had  left  might  well  have 
attracted  a  more  ambitious  spiiit 

"  To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days." 

Athens  was  then  teeming  with  all  the  exuberant  life 
which  marked  the  renaissance  in  modern  times. 
Thought  found  its  utterance  in  action,  in  the  passion 
for  Avar  and  in  the  restless  spirit  of  enterprise,  in  all 
that  many-sided  energy  which  marked  the  Athenians 
—  a  people  of  Avhom  their  OAvn  historian  speaks  as 
"  never  quiet  themselves,  and  never  alloAving  others 
to  be  so."  *  Assuredly  Sophocles  Avas  born  under  a 
lucky  star ;  for  his  life  Avas  coeval  Avith  the  greatness 
of  his  country,  and  he  did  not  live  to  see  the  Long 
•  Thucydides,  i.  70. 


6  SOPHOCLES. 

Walls — the  symLol  of  that  greatness — levelled  in  the 
dust  to  the  sound  of  Spartan  music.  He  lived  in  an 
age  of  heroes.  All  round  him  were  the  very  men  who 
had  made  his  country  what  it  was,  and  with  most  of 
these  men  he  was  on  terms  of  the  most  familiar  inter- 
course. Doors  were  not  then,  as  now,  "  barred  with 
gold ; "  and  Athenian  society  opened  its  arms  to  the 
gracefid  and  engaging  poet,  so  genial  in  his  temper,  so 
lively  in  conversation,  so  true  a  friend,  so  pleasant  a 
guest.  We  can  imagine  Sophocles  in  his  old  age  recal- 
ling the  memories  of  his  youth  ;  recounting  to  his  chil- 
dren, with  pardonable  pride,  the  historic  names  and 
scenes  with  which  he  had  been  so  familiar :  he  would 
tell  them  how  he  had  listened  to  the  thunder  of 
"  Olympian  Pericles ; "  how  he  had  been  startled  by 
the  chorus  of  Furies  in  the  play  of  ^schylus ;  how 
he  had  talked  with  the  garrulous  and  open-hearted 
Herodotus ;  how  he  had  followed  Anaxagoras,  the 
great  Sceptic,  in  the  cool  of  the  day  among  a  throng 
of  Ills  disciples;  how  he  had  wallced  with  Phidias, 
and  supped  with  Aspasia. 

Sophocles  enjoyed  a  rare  popularity  in  Athens. 
Even  that  prince  of  satirists,  Aristophanes,  can  find 
neither  flaw  nor  blemish,  in  his  moral  armour  against 
which  to  launch  an  arrow.  He  directs  unsi)aring 
raillery  against  the  "bombast  of  ^scliylus  and  the 
sopliistry  of  Euripides ;  but  he  has  nothing  to  say 
against  this  "good  easy  man" — "as  gentle  below  the 
earth  as  he  was  gentle  in  his  lifetime."  *  The  scan- 
ilalous  anecdotes  of  Athenajus  may  be  taken  for  Avhat 
*  Aristoph.  P.anie,  82. 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

they  are  worth ;  and  it  is  difficult  for  any  one  who  has 
read  his  plays,  with  all  their  purity  of  passion,  their 
delicacy  of  feeling,  their  chivalrous  principles  of  hon- 
our, to  believe  them,  with  Lord  Lytton,  to  have  been 
written  by  a  "  profligate  "  or  a  "  renegade."  * 

He  died  full  of  years  and  honour,  loved  (as  his 
biographer  tells  us)  in  every  way  by  all  men  ;  and 
his  fellow-citizens  paid  due  reverence  to  the  tomb  of 
him  who  Avas  truly  "  the  prince  of  poets  in  his  tim^" 
The  god  Bacchus,  himself,  the  divine  patron  of  the 
tragic  drama,  was  said  to  have  appeared  to  Lysander, 
whose  armies  were  then  beleaguering  Athens,  and  to 
have  demanded  that  a  safe-conduct  should  be  given 
to  the  poet's  friends  to  bear  his  body  beyond  the 
city  walls  to  Docelea,  and  there  bury  it  in  the  sepul- 
chre of  his  fathers. 

Sacrifices  were  offered  to  his  Manes,  and  a  statue  of 
bronze  was  erected  to  his  memory;  but  "more  endur- 
ing than  brass  or  marble  "  has  been  the  epitaph  com- 
posed in  his  honour  by  Simmias  of  Thebes,  thus 
gracefully  translated  by  Professor  Plumptre : — 

"  Creep  gently,  ivy,  ever  gently  creep. 

Where  Sophocles  sleeps  on  in  calm  repose  ; 
Thy  pale  green  tresses  o'er  the  n»arble  sweep, 

While  all  around  shall  bloom  the  purpling  rose. 
There  let  the  vine  with  rich  full  clusters  hang, 

Its  fair  young  tendrils  fling  around  the  stone  ; 
Due  meed  for  that  sweet  wisdom  which  he  sang. 

By  Muses  and  by  Graces  called  their  own." 

We  now  pass  to  the  inner  life  of  Sophocles — to  his 
♦  Athens,  ii.  520,  note. 


8  SOPHOCLES. 

cliaracter  and  work.  It  is  but  a  step  from  .^EscLylus 
to  him,  yet  the  step  involves  an  immensity  of  change, 
not  only  iu  the  man,  but  in  the  age.  Instead  of  the 
rousli  son  of  Mars — the  hero  of  Marathon — who  (as 
Sophocles  himself  said)  '*  did  what  was  right  with- 
out knowing  it,"  we  have  the  graceful  and  artistic 
poet,  skilled  in  weaving  plots  and  in  delineating  char- 
acters. The  change  is  like  passing  from  storm  to  sun- 
shine. The  wild  imagery,  the  unearthly  conceptions, 
the  heroes  and  the  heroines,  human  indeed,  but  with, 
the  human  image  dilated  to  colossal  proportions,  like 
the  spectre  of  the  Brocken,  and  with  the  passions  of 
the  Titans  who  scaled  Olympus — the  "  ox-horned  lo," 
the  blood-stained  Furies,  and  the  "  wild  Cassandra," — 
all  these  have  disappeared.  In  their  stead  the  scene 
is  occupied  by  creations  of  flesh  and  blood,  with 
human  sympathies  and  affections,  true  and  real  in 
character,  because  their  types  were  taken  from  the 
gallery  of  life.  The  serenity  Avhich  marked  the  poet 
seems  to  influence  his  readers  and  spectators.  So  true 
is  lie  to  nature,  so  gradual  is  his  development  of  each 
legend,  however  wonderful  or  monstrous  it  may  be, 
that  we  have  no  alternative  but  to  believe  and  sympa- 
thise. It  is  with  Sophocles  as  with  Spenser,  **  An  plus 
fort  de  I'invention  il  reste  serein.  Sa  bonne  foi  nous 
gagne  ;  sa  sercnitc  devient  la  notre.  Kous  devenons 
crcdules  et  heureux  par  contagion.  .  .  .  '  C'est  une 
fantasmagorie,'  dira-t-on  1  Qu'importe  %  si  nous  la 
voyons,  et  nous  la  voyons,  car  '  Sophocle '  la  voit."  * 

*  Taine  (Hist,  de  la  Litterature  Anglaise,  i.  334),  who  thus 
speaks  of  Spenser. 


INTRODUCTION.  9 

The  poet  fell  in  with  the  change  that  liad  come  over 
the  spirit  of  his  time.     The  generation  of  ^schylus^ 
stout  warriors  who  had  fought  at  Marathon,  and  sturdy- 
seamen  who  "  knew  nothing  "  (as  Aristophanes  said) 
"  except  to  call  for  harley-cake,  and  shout  '  yo-heave- 
ho'" —  had   been    content   to   believe    implicitly  all 
that  Homer  and  their  poets  had  taught  them;  and 
seeing  around   them  traces  of  some  mysterious  force 
whose    agency  and    purpose   they  were  powerless  to 
explain,  they  made  a  god  of  this  ITecessity  or  Des- 
tiny, and  called  it  Nemesis.       She  was,  in  truth,  a 
jealous  deity,  causing  the  rich  and  prosperous  to  foun- 
der lilvc  a  vessel  on  a  sunken  reef,*  and  in  one  short 
day  changing  their  joy  to  sorrow,^striking  them  piti- 
lessly down  in  the  plenitude  of  their  grandeur,  as  a 
child  in  mere  wantonness  strikes   down   the    tallest 
poppies  in  the  corn-field.     It  was  in  vain  to  attempt 
to  coax  or  cajole  this   capricious  power  by  tears   or 
offerings.       History  had   taught  men   the  futility   of 
such  bribes.     Polycrates  had  thrown  his  precious  ring 
into  the  sea ;  Croesus  had  filled  the  treasury  of  Delphi 
with  his  gold;    but   "no   sacrifice    or  libation    could 
save  a  man's  soul  from  Death,"  and  "  on  Death  alone, 
»f  all  divinities.  Persuasion  had  no  power."  +     And 
Herodotus,  the   most  pious   of  historians,   draws  the 
obvious  moral  from  the  downfall  of  kings  and  the 
collapse   of  empires.     "Envy,"  he   says,   "clings   to 
all  that  mortal   is.  .  .  .  Even   a  god   cannot  escape 
from  Destiny."  % 

*  jEscIi.,  Eumen.  565.         t  /Esch.,  Fraj^ra.  of  Niobe. 
X  Hist,  i,  35,  91 ;  vii.  46. 


10  SOPHOCLES. 

Such,  was  the  "  tremendous  creed  "  of  which  ^schy- 
his  was  a  fitting  exponent ;  with  him  the  Furies  are 
the  satellites  of  Fate,  and  it  is  their  eternal  duty 
to  pursue  the  murderer  till  death  and  after  death. 
The  complaint  which  Corneille  puts  into  the  mouth  of 
Theseus,  in  his  '  QEdipe,'  might  have  been  more  truly 
uttered  by  Eteocles  in  the  '  Seven  against  Thebes,'  as 
he  feels  the  blast  of  his  father's  curae  which  is  wafting 
him  to  Hades  : — 

"  Quoi !  la  necessite  des  vertus  et  des  vices 
D'un  astre  imperieux  doit  suivre  les  caprices, 
Et  Delphes  malgre  nous  conduit  nos  actions 
Au  plus  bizarre  efifet  de  ses  predictions  ? 
L'anie  est  done  toute  esclave  ;  une  loi  souveraine 
Vers  le  bien  ou  le  lual  incessament  I'entraine ; 
Et  nous  ne  recevons  ni  crainte,  ni  desii, 
De  cette  liberte  qui  n'a  rien  a  cboisir ; 
Attaches  sans  relache  i  cet  ordre  sublime, 
Vertueux  sans  merite,  et  vicieux  sans  crime."  * 

— '  CEdipe,'  Act  ill.  sc.  6. 

It  is  true  that  in  the  '  Prometheus '  we  have  the 
spectacle  of  an  indomitable  will,  proof  against  all 
suffering;  yet  it  is  in  tliis  very  play  that  jJlschylus 
most  insists  on  the  "  invincible  might  of  Necessity," 

*  Readers  of  Shakspeare  may  rememher  Edmund's  descrip- 
tion of  tlie  "  excellent  foppery  of  the  world,  tliat  when  we  are 
sick  in  fortune  (often  the  surfeit  of  our  own  behaviour),  we 
make  guilty  of  onr  disasters  the  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  stai's  ; 
ay  if  we  were  villains  by  necessit)-,  fools  by  heavenly  compul- 
sion, knaves  and  thieves  by  spherical  predominance,  .  .  .  and 
all  that  we  pre  evil  in  by  a  divine  thrusting  on." — King  Lear, 
Act  i.  sc.  2. 


introduction:  11 

t^  which  wise  men  pay  homage,  and  -which  is  "a 
higher  power  ihan  Jove."  Prometheus  defies  tlie 
lightning,  but  he  bows  to  Destiny,  as  the  ghxdiators 
bowed  to  the  autocrat  in  the  imperial  box,  Avith  tlieir 
chant  of  morituri  te  salutant,  knoAving  themselves  to 
be  doomed  men,  but  dying  Avith  a  good  grace,  and 
scorning  tD  ask  for  quarter. 

Gradually  the  Greek  mind  expanded.  The  seas 
were  opened,  commerce  increased,  men  travelled  far 
and  saw  much  ;  and  tlius  the  same  stimulus  Avas  giA'^en 
to  national  thought  and  feeling  by  maritime  enterprise 
as  to  the  Jcavs  under  Solomon,  and  to  the  English 
under  Elizabeth.*  And  as  the  Athenians  grew  adven- 
turous, so  they  grcAV  self-reliant.  They  doubted  and 
questioned  Avhere  they  had  before  been  content  to 
sliudder  and  believe.  They  attributed  more  to  them- 
selves and  less  to  the  blind  agency  of  Destiny ;  and 
thus,  in  this  progre.ss  of  rationalism,  there  ensued  that 
momentous  change  in  thought  represented  by  the 
transition  in  history  from  Herodotus  to  Thucydides, 
and  in  poetry  from  iEschylus  to  Sophocles. 

With  this  new  generation,  man  is  no  longer  bound 
hand  and  foot,  powerless  to  move  against  his  inevitable 
doom.  He  has  liberty  of  choice  in  action,  and  by  liis 
knoAvledge  or  his  ignorance,  by  his  virtues  or  his  vices, 
has  made  himself  Avhat  he  is.  It  is  not  so  much  a 
malignant  poAA'er  tormenting  men  in  sheer  envy  at 
their  Avealth  or  happiness ;  but  it  is  men  themselves, 
AA'ho  "  play  the  fool  Avith  the  times.  Avhile  the  spirits  of 

*  See  Stanley's  Lccturos  on  tlie  Jewish  C'linreh,  ii.  18."<; 
Fronde's  History  of  England,  viii.  426. 


12  SOPHOCLES.  \ 

the  wise  sit  in  the  clouds  and  mock  them."  A  long 
train  of  disastrous  consequences  often  follows  from  a 
single  impious  speech  or  guilty  deed — nay,  even  from 
a  hot  word  or  a  hasty  hlow.  Thus  the  idea  of  Destiny 
passes  into  that  of  retribution.  Punishment  surely 
follows  sin,  if  not  in  a  man's  own  day,  yet  descending, 
like  an  heirloom  of  misery,  upon  his  children. 

'•  In  life  there  is  a  seesaw  ;  if  we  shape 
Our  actions  to  our  humours,  other  hands 
May  shape  their  conserpiences  to  our  pain."  * 

In  fact,  Sophocles  seems  to  have  asked  himself  the 
question  put  hy  Nisus  to  Euryalus  in  the  JEneid, 
and  to  have  answered  it  in  his  treatment  of  men  in 
their  relations  to  God  : — 

"  Dine  hunc  ardorem  mentibus  addunt, 
Euryale  ?  an  sua  cuique  deus  fit  dira  cupido  ?"t 

•\  In  ench  of  liis  plays  he  shows  how  passion  works  out 
its  own  en3— -AvhetheriFHeTlfi^r^i'ide  of  CEdipus,  the 
stubbornness  of  Creon,  the  insane  fury  of  Ajax,  or  the 

*  So  says  Sophocles,  Ajax,  1085  (translated  in  Mr  D'Arcy 
Thompson's  'Sales  Attici'),  anticipating  the  well-known  words 
of  Shakspeare : — 

"  The  gods  are  just,  and  of  onr  pleasant  vices 
Make  instruments  to  scourge  us." 

— King  Lear,  Act  v.  sc.  3. 

+  Virgil,  ^n.  ix.  184.  Professor  Conington  translates  the 
passage  thus : — 

'■  Can  it  be  Heaven,'  said  Nisus  then, 

'  Tliat  lends  such  warmth  to  hearts  of  men  ? 

'  Or  passion  surging  past  control 

*  That  plays  tlie  god  to  each  man's  soul  ? ' 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

jealousy  of  Dejanira.  All  these  passions  are  simple 
and  natural ;  there  are  no  eccentricities  of  genius,  no 
abnormal  mental  states,  such  as  furnish  the  material  of 
the  modern  drama.  The  Greek  would  not  have  under- 
stood the  melancholy  of  Hamlet  or  the  madness  of 
Lear ;  still  less  would  he  have  entered  into  the  spirit 
of  Timon's  declaration, — 

"  I  am  misanthropos,  and  hate  mankind/' 

The  Athenian  audience,  with  the  joyous  instincts  of 
children — ever  ready  to  "  make  believe  " — gave  them- 
selves up  to  all  the  illusions  of  the  scene  and  story, 
delighting,  and  freely  expressing  their  delight,  in  the 
picturesque  and  ever-shifting  series  of  graceful  tableaux, 
so  different  from  the  still  life  of  a  statue  or  a  painting. 
They  were  "as  gods,"  knowing  all  the  good  and  evil 
in  the  future  of  the  play — such  knowledge  only  increas- 
ing the  expectancy  with  which  they  looked  forward  to 
CEdipus  blinding  himself,  or  Ajax  falling  on  his  sword. 
The  manner  in  which  the  poet  treated  each  old  familiar 
tale  was  the  test  of  his  art,  just  as  a  modern  preacher 
mifht  discuss  and  illustrate,  after  his  own  proper  taste 
and  fashion,  some  Ayell-known  text.  If  we  want  a 
modern  example  of  the  keen  interest  and  sympathy 
which  may  be  excited  in  a  large  and  intelligent  audi- 
ence by  the  lifelike  representation  of  a  history  familiar 
to  them  from  their  childhood,  we  have  not  to  go  far  to 
seek.  The  Passion-Play  now  acted  at  Ober-Ammer- 
rrau  has  many  points  of  resemblance  to  the  Greek 
drama.  In  both  there  is  the  same  reality  and  majestic 
slowness  in  the  acting,  the  same  rhythmical  dialogue, 


A 


\ 


14  SOPHOCLES. 

the  same  melodious  choral  songs,  the  same  large  stage, 
■with  architectural  scenery  half-open  to  the  sky,  and, 
above  all,  the  same  intensity  of  religious  feeling,  which 
thrills  the  actor,  and  passes  from  him,  like  an  electric 
current,  to  an  enthusiastic  audience.  And  if  this 
resemblance  is  apparent  now,  how  much  stronger  must 
it  have  been  in  the  middle  ages,  when  the  Bible  was 
a  sealed  book  to  the  poorer  classes,  while  the  Passion- 
Play  embodied  for  them  to  the  life  the  personages  and 
scenes  of  Scripture — when,  as  a  German  critic  describes 
it,  "  cloister  and  church  were  the  first  theatres,  priests 
the  first  actors,  the  first  dramatic  matter  was  the  Pas- 
sion, and  the  first  dramas  the  Mysteries."* 

Sophocles  developed  this  religious  aspect  of  the 
drama ;  and  no  Athenian  citizen  could  have  seen  his 
'  Ajax '  or  '  Antigone '  without  feeling  their  hearts 
burn  within  them,  or  without  being  touched  and  ele- 
vated by  the  mingled  sweetness  and  purity  and  pathos 
wliich  earned  for  the  poet  the  title  of  the  "  Attic  Bee." 
From  his  pages  can  be  gleaned  sentences  which  read 
like  fragments  from  the  inspired  writings,  and  which 
might  have  furnished  texts  for  a  hundred  sermons. 
"With  him  the  Deity  is  a  personal  and  omnipresent 
being,  far  removed  from  that  sombre  and  vindictive 
Nemesis  which  haunted  ^schylus, — "  neither  sleeping 
nor  waxing  faint  in  the  lapse  of  years,  but  reigning 
for  ever  in  the  splendour  of  Olympus," — "  speaking 
in  riddles  to  the  wise,  but  leaving  the  foolish  in  their 
own  conceits."  "  N^othing  is  impossible  with  Him." 
"  His  works  may  perish,  but  He  lives  for  all  eter- 
*  Gervinus,  Commeut.  on  Shakspeare,  L  66. 


INTRODUCTtO.Y.  15 

nity."  "  Happiness  is  a  fniit  that  gi'ows  in  His 
garden  onlj'."  "To  honour  Him  is  the  -flrst  and 
greatest  of  commandments."  *  Here  are  lines  vv],ich 
might  have  been  written  by  a  Christian  divine  : — 

"  Speak  then  no  word  of  pride,  nor  raise 
A  swelling  thoiij^'ht  against  the  gods  on  high  ; 
For  Time  uplifteth  and  Time  layeth  low 
All  liuuuin  tlungs  ;  and  the  great  gods  above 
Abhor  the  wicked  as  the 'good  they  love. 

•  •  ••••••• 

Be  lilameless  in  all  duties  towards  the  gods ; 
For  God  the  Father  in  compare  with  this 
Lightly  esteemeth  all  things  else ;  and  so 
Thy  rigliteousness  shall  with  thee  to  the  end 
Enduie,  and  follow  thee  beyond  the  grave."  t 

These  sentiments  pervade  every  play.  It  is  only 
when  unmanned  by  despair  that  his  heroes  are  tempted, 
like  Job,  in  the  anguish  of  their  hearts,  to  "  curse  God 
and  die."  Even  then  such  impiety  meets  with  its  own 
reward.  Well,  therefore,  might  his  uidtnown  bio- 
grapher declare  Sophocles  to  have  been  "  dear  to  the 
gods  as  no  other  man  was ; "  and  with  equal  truth 
may  Professor  Plumptre  hail  him  as  one  of  those 
who  were,  in  their  degree,  "schoolmasters  unto 
Christ." 

^Mingled  with  this  strong  religious  feeling  in  Sopho- 
cles Avas  that  melancholy  supposed  to  be  engendered 
only  in  the  poets  of  the  north.     He  is  oppressed  by 

•  Fragments  of  lost  i)lays  of  Sophocles. 

+  Pluloctetes,  1441.  Tliis  and  the  preceding  translationa 
are  mainly  taken  from  'Sales  Attici.' 


IQ  SOPHOCLES. 

his  sense  oA  tlie  feebleness  of  human   intellect  and 
the  imii'vteuce  of  human  foresight,  as  compared  with 
the  -omnipotent  wisdom  of  an  eternal   being.       Like 
some  master-spirit,  he  views  the  actions  and  passions 
of  the  characters  which  he  has  created  with  a  half- 
contemptuous   pity.     He  heaps  upon  mankind  every 
epithet  of  scorn — "  phantoms,"  "  shadows,"  "  creatures 
of  a  day,"  "  born  to  misery  as  the  sparks  fly  upwards." 
Hence  springs  what  has  been  called  his  "  Irony,"  so 
admirably  illustrated  in  Bishop  Thirlwall's  well-known 
essay.     "  Men  promise  much  and  perform  little.    They 
think  they  are  marching  onward  to  fame  and  greatness, 
when  the  ground  is  opening  beneath  their  feet,  and 
they  are  sinking  to  destruction.      They  boast  of  their 
strength  when  they  are  really  displaying  their  weak- 
ness.      Like    Q^dipus,   they  solve  the   riddle  of   the 
Sphinx,  and  are   blind   to    the  riddle   of   their  own 
lives."  *     And  there  had  been  sufficient  historical  ex- 
amples, even  within  his  OAvn  experience,  to  point  the 
moral   of  this  Irony.      Scarcely  one    of   those  great 
statesmen  whom  he  had  personally  known,  command- 
ing the  armies  or  guiding  the  councils  of  his  country, 
had  either  lived  long  or  had  seen  good  days.     Defeat, 
disaster,  or  dishonour,  had  been  the  lot  of  aU.     Them- 
istocles  had  died  in  a  strange  land,  a  pensioner  on  the 
Great  King's  bounty ;  Pericles  had  fallen  a  victim  to 
the  plague  which  was  decimating  his  besieged  country- 
men ;  his  nephew,  the  gay  and  gallant  Alcibiades,  was  a 
traitor  in  the  Spartan  camp  ;  while  Nicias  had  perished 
*  Plumptre'a  lutrod.  to  Sophocles,  IxxxviiL 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

miserably,  with  the  flower  of  his  army,  after  the  fatal 
night-march  from  Syracuse. 

Many  improvements  are  said  to  have  been  intro- 
duced by  Sojjliocles  on  the  Athenian  stage.  We  are 
told  that  he  raised  the  number  of  actors  present  at 
once  upon  the  scene  from  two  to  three  ;  that  he  attired 
them  in  splendid  dresses — robes  of  satiron  and  purple, 

^j,>  falling  in  long  and  graceful  folds, — ^jewelled  chaplets, 

and   broad   embroidered  girdles.     But  above   all,  he 

increased  the  number  of  the  Chorus,  and  gave  a  new 

,    form  and  spirit  to  the  music  which  accompanied  their 

"^  odes.  We,  in  our  cold  climate,  can  hardly  appreciate 
the  effect  which  music  produced  on  the  enthusiastic 
Greek  temperament.  The  French  are  more  susceptible 
to  such  influence  ;  and  few  who  have  ever  heard  it  can 
forget  the  sublime  effect  of  the  Marseillaise  thundered 
out  by  a  vast  revolutionary  throng.  To  the  Greek, 
music  was  a  passion  and  a  necessity.  Even  now,  a 
modern  traveller  compares  their  life  to  an  opera,  where 
men  sing  from  birth  to  death ;  and  perhaps  the  case 
was  even  stronger  in  the  days  of  Sopliocles,  when 
"  song  rose  from  an  Hellenic  village  as  naturally  as 
from  a  brake  in  spring."  Whether  the  peasant  might 
be  watching  by  the  cradle,  working  in  the  vineyard, 
or  toiling  at  the  oar,  the  labour  was  in  each  case 
lightened  by  some  appropriate  song.  Their  bards 
told  how  Arion  charmed  the  dolphin,  how  the  walls 
of  Troy  rose  to  the  sound  of  Apollo's  flute,  as  those  of 
Jericho  fell  before  the  trumpets  of  the  priests,  and 

A.  C.    VoL  X.  B 


18  SOPHOCLES. 

how  trees  and  rocks  followed  Orpheus  as  he  sang. 
Even  philosophers  recognised  this  all-pervading  influ- 
ence. Aristotle  has  devoted  a  long  and  learned 
chapter  of  his  Politics  to  the  "  moral  influence  oi 
music;"  and  it  was  in  music  also  (as  most  likely  to 
he  corrupted  hy  innovation)  that  Plato,  in  his  ideal 
State,  places  the  watch-tower  of  his  "guardians."  The 
marriage  hymn,  the  funeral  dirge,  the  incantation  of 
the  witch,  the  chant  of  the  physician,  the  solemn 
and  melodious  invocation  of  the  priest,  merely  illus- 
trate this  universal  passion.  Ion,  the  rhapsodist, 
describes  the  strong  emotion  produced  in  himself  and 
in  his  hearers  hy  the  recitation  of  Homer.  "  When 
that  which  I  recite  is  pathetic,"  he  says,  "my  eyes 
are  filled  with  tears ;  when  it  is  awful  or  terrible,  my 
hair  stands  on  end  and  my  heart  leaps.  Moreover,  I 
see  the  spectators  also  weeping  in  sympathy  with  my 
emotion,  and  looking  aghast  with  terror."  *  If  the  mere 
recitation  of  hexameter  verse  could  produce  this  effect, 
far  more  powerfully  must  the  simple  but  passionate 
music  of  the  Tragic  Chorus,  sung  in  unison  by  well- 
trained  singers,  have  impressed  the  audience  in  the 
theatre,  where  the  masks  of  perfect  beauty,  the  grace- 
ful robes,  and  the  majestic  stature  of  the  actors  gave  a 
solemn  and  almost  unearthly  character  to  the  scene. 
Though  Sophocles  had  a  weak  voice,  he  was  himself 
a  skilled  musician  ;  and  in  his  choral  odes  (purposely 
shortened  by  him  that  they  might  not  interrupt  the 
current  of  the  story)  we  can  faintly  trace  the  echo  of 
that  sweet  and  majestic  melody  which  must  once  have 
*  Grote's  Plato  (Ion). 


introduction:  19 

entranced  all  hearers — we  can  almost  hear  the  harmony 
of  voices,  now  rising  loud  and  clear  as  they  hail  a 
prince  or  victor,  and  then  dying  away  with  a  solemn 
Memnonian  cadence  as 

"  They  mourn  the  bridegroom  early  torn 

From  his  young  bride,  and  set  on  high — 
Strength,  courage,  virtue's  golden  morn, 
Too  good  to  die."  * 

•  Horace,  Od.  iv.  2  (Conington's  Transl.) 


CHAPTEE   II, 


(EDIPUS    THE    KINO. 


Ko  tragedy  in    history  or   in  fiction    can    equal   tlie 

horror  of  the  tale  of  QEdipus.     The  plot  is  so  simple 

/as  to  he  told  in  a  sentence.   '^-An  oracle  foretells  that 

/  CEdipus  shall  slay  his  father  and  he  married  to  his 

I  mother ;  and,  against  his  own  will  and  knowledge,  he 

/   fulfils  his  destiny.     By  a  sudden  revolution  of  fortune 

I    we  see  a  man,  to  all  appearance  as  wise  as  Solomon  and 

I     as  hlanieless  as  Joh,  hurled  into  an  ahyss  of  misery 

I     and  despair ;  and  this  hy  a  chain  of  circumstances  of 

1    whose  real  i)nport  he  is  himself  unconscious  until  the 

/     final  catastrophe.     It  is  a  case  where  the  punishment 

'-^seems  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  crime.     Even  Avhen 

we  take  into  account  the  passion,  the  pride,  and  the 

curiosity  of  Q^^dipus,  we  still  feel  that  the  criminal  has 

heen  in  a  measure  "  the  victim  of  a  mistake  " — that  he 

is  a  mere  puppet  in  the  hands  of  some  superior  and 

relentless  power.      And   yet  this  Fatality,   to  Avhich 

CEdipus  is  subject,  is  not  so  great  or  capricious  as  at 

first  sight  it  seems  to  he.     It  is  true  that  chance  and 

misfortune  are  the  means  which  it  makes  use  of  for 


(EDIPUS  TEE  KING.  21 

the  accomplishment  of  its  purpose,  but  it  uses  them 
for  the  ends  of  Justice.  "  The  real  instruments,"  says 
M.  Girardin,  "  by  \vhich  Fate  Avorks,  are  men's  un- 
bridled passions  ;  it  strikes  down  the  murderer  by  the 
murderer,  and  punishes  the  crime  by  the  crime.  Bub 
Justice  appears  beyond  and  above  these  furious  im- 
pulses, and  directs  them,  in  spite  of  themselves,  to  that 
mysterious  goal  towards  which  it  tends."  *  To  the 
audience,  who  knew  the  story  Avell,  no  suspense  could 
have  been  so  agonising  as  to  watch  the  misguided 
king  rushing  headlong  to  his  doom — to  see  him  weav- 
ing himself  the  fatal  chain  of  evidence  which  was  to 
convict  him  of  murder  and  incest, — and  this  without 
their  being  able  to  raise  a  voice  to  warn,  or  to  stretch 
out  a  hand  to  save.  And  mingled  with  this  feeling 
was  that  indefinable  sympathetic  fear — ahvays  strongly 
excited  by  the  sight  of  sufferings  to  which  we  may  be 
ourselves  exposed  —  the  dread  which  haunted  each 
man  among  the  audience  lest  he  might  himself  some 
day  prove  an  CEdipife,  No  one  would  have  disclaimed 
the  idea  of  his  committing  such  monstrous  sins  with  a 
more  fervent  sincerity  than  the  criminal  in  this  tragedy. 
"  lo  thy  servant  a  dog,  that  he  should  do  these  things  ]" 
he  Avould  have  asked ;  and  yet,  influenced  by  some 
mysterious  impulse,  he  had  done  them  all.  And, 
lastly,  the  spectators  must  have  felt  that  natural  but 
sfcitish  pleasure  of  looking  down,  like  the  gods  of  Epi- 
curus, from  the  vantage-ground  of  their  tiers  of  seats, 
on  the  storm  of  conflicting  passions,  the  love  and  the 
rago,  the  hatred  and  the  despair,  which  convulsed  the 
*  Cours  de  Lit.  Dramat.,  i.  189. 


22  SOPHOCLES. 

actors  oil  the  stage.     Lucretius  describes  this  common- 
est of  all  feelings  in  well-known  lines  :  "  Sweet  it  is," 
says  he,  "  when  on  the  great  sea  winds  are  troubling 
the  waters,  to  behold  from  land  another's  deep  distress. 
.    .    .   'Tis  sweet  again  to  look  upon  armies  battling  on 
the  plains  without  sharing  in  the  danger."  * 
!,     It  was  the  skilful  manner  in  which  all  these  emo- 
..  //tions  are  worked  up  by  yophocles  in  this  play  that 
r  /  caused  Aristotle,  the  great  critic,  to  select  '  ffidipus  the 
King '  as  the  model  and  masterpiece  of  Tragedy. 

We  are  carried  back  by  the  poet  to  the  same 
mythic  period,  with  no  pretence  to  historical  date, 
to  which  Shakspeare  carries  us  back  in  his  kindred 
play  of  '  King  Lear '  t — an  age  of  giants,  when  men's 
"■'  passions  were  at  blood-heat,  when  atrocious  crimes 
were  followed  by  atrocious  vengeance,  and  when  the 
general  violence  and  brutality  of  manners  is  only  re- 
lieved by  brighter  touches  in  such  characters  as  Theseus 
and  Kent,  Cordelia  and  Antigone.  CEdipus  himself 
might  well  say  with  Lear,  that  "  the  best  and  soundest 
of  his  time  had  been  but  rashness." 

Laius,  king  of  Thebes,  took  for  his  wife  Jocasta, 
'•'  daughter  of  the  wise  Menoeceus,"  but  she  bore  him 
no  children.  Then  in  his  distress  he  asked  help  of 
the  god  of  Delphi  ;  and  the  god  declared  that  a  son 
sliould  be  born  to  him,  but  by  the  hands  of  this  son 
he  should  surely  die.  As  soon  as  the  child,  the  hero 
of  this  tragedy,  is  born,  his  mother  intrusts  him  to  a 
servant,  with  strict  charge  that  he  should  be  left  to 


L: 


*  Lucretius,  ii.  1  (Mumo's  Tiansl.) 

+  Gervinua,  Comment,  on  Shakspeare,  ii.  204. 


(EDIPUS  TUE  KING.  23 

die  in  the  wilderness.  This  cruel  command  is  obeyed. 
The  child's  feet  are  pierced,  cords  are  i)assed  through 
them,  and  it  is  left  hanging  from  a  tree  in  the  wildest 
pass  of  Mount  Cithajron.  There  a  shepherd  finds  it, 
and,  moved  with  pity,  carries  it  to  his  master  Polyhus, 
king  of  Corinth.  The  wife  of  Polybus,  being  child- 
less, resolves  to  adopt  the  foundling  as  her  own  sou^ 
and  thus  the  stranger  is  received  into  the  palace,  ant 
is  given  the  name  of  CEdipus — "  Swell-foot."  He  growj 
up  to  manhood,  never  doubting  that  he  is  the  son  and 
heir  of  Polybus. 

In  the  mean  time  King  Laius  had  grown  old,  and 
thirty  years  after  his  child  had  been  thus  exposed, 
he  made  a  second  pilgrimage  to  considt  the  god  of 
Delphi.  From  this  pilgrimage  he  never  returned,  for 
on  his  way  home  he  was  attacked  and  slain  by  some 
unknown  hand,  at  tlie  spot  where  the  road  from 
Delphi  branches  off  to  Phocis  and  Boeotia.  Creon 
succeeds  him  ;  but  his  reign  is  brief,  for  a  monster, 
with  the  face  of  a  woman,  the  wings  of  a  bird,  and 
the  tail  and  claws  of  a  lion,  was  bringing  desolation 
on  the  city  of  Thebes.  The  Sphinx  (as  this  monster 
was  called)  proposed  a  riddle  which  no  Theban  could 
solve  ;  and  the  life  of  a  citizen  Avas  the  penalty  for 
every  failure.  So  terrible  was  the  visitation,  that 
Creon,  in.  despair,  offered  the  crown  of  Thebes  and  the 
hand  of  his  sister  Jocasta  to  any  who  could  unravel 
the  enigma  and  save  the  state. 

At  this  crisis  CEdipus,  like  the  "  fated  fairy  prince," 
comes  to  the  re.^cue.  He  had  left  the  court  of 
Polybus,  indignant  at  an  insult  offered  him  on  the 


24  SOPHOCLES. 

score  of  liis  unknown  birtli,  and  cliance  or  destiny  had 
brought  him  to  Thebes.  Corneille  makes  him  tell  his 
own  story — how  on  his  arrival  at  the  foot  of  the  fatal 
rock  he  sees  the  ground  covered  with  the  mangled 
limbs  of  former  unlucky  interpreters — how,  in  their 
despair,  the  perishing  citizens  make  large  proffers  to 
the  man  who  shall  deliver  them  : — 

"  Le  peuple  offre  le  sceptre,  et  la  reine  son  lit ; 
De  cent  cruelles  morts  cette  oifre  est  tot  suivie ; 
J'arrive,  je  I'apprens,  j'y  hazarde  ma  vie. 
Au  pied  du  roc  affreux  seme  d'os  blanchissantji       .  i 
Je  demande  I'enigme,  et  j'en  cherche  la  sens ; 
Et  ce  qu'aucun  mortel  n'avait  encore  pu  faire, 
J'en  devoile  I'image,  et  perce  le  mystere. 
Le  monstre,  furieux  de  se  voir  entendu, 
Venge  aussitot  sur  lui  tout  de  sang  repandu, 
Du  roc  se  lance  en  bas,  et  s'ecrase  lui-meme, 
La  reine  tint  parole,  et  j'eus  le  diademe." 

— (Edipe,  Act  i.  sc.  4. 

Both  the  riddle  and  the  answer  given  have  become 
matter  of  popular  and  well-known  story ;  and  it  is 
difficult  to  understand  the  perplexity  of  the  Thebans, 
for  the  enigma  was  of  the  simplest  kind  :  "  A  being 
Avith  four  feet  has  two  feet  and  tliree  feet  and  only 
one  voice ;  but  its  feet  vary,  and,  when  it  has  most, 
it  is  weakest.''  Professor  Plumptre  has  thus  trans- 
lated the  answer  of  Oedipus  : — 

"  Hear  thou  against  thy  will,  thou  dark-winged  Muse  of 

the  slaughtered ; 
Hear  from  my  lips  the  end  bringing  a  close  to  thy  crime: 
Man  is  it  tliou  hast  described,  who,  when  on  earth  he 

appeareth, 


(EDI PUS   THE  KING.  25 

First  as  a  babe  from  the  womb,  four-footed  creeps  on  bis 

way, 
Then  when  oUl  age  cometh  on,  and  the  burden  of  years 

weighs  full  heavy. 
Bending  his  shoulders  and  neck,  as  a  third  foot  usetb  his 

staff."*— (P.) 

And  so  the  successful  adventurer  is  made  king,  and 
takes  for  his  wife  Jocasta,  who  had  been  the  Avife  of 
Laius,  and  by  her  he  has  both  sons  and  daughters. 
For  some  years  all  went  well  with  (Edipus.  He  had 
children,  and  lands,  and  Avealth,  and  honour,  and 
alAhat  helps  to  make  life  precious.  He  was  happy  in 
the  aflfections  of  his  family  and  in  the  loyalty  of  his 
subjects.  "  Heaven  and  earth  are  silent  for  a  gener- 
ation; one  might  fancy  that  they  are  tread lerotisly 
silent,  in  order  that  Qidipus  may  have  time  for  build- 
ing up  to  the  clouds  the  pyramid  of  his  mysterious 
offences.  His  four  children  incestuously^born — sons 
that  are  his  brothers,  daughters  that  are  liis  sisters — 
have  grown  up  to  be  men  and  women  before  the  first 
mutterings  are  becoming  audible  of  that  great  tide 
.  slowly  coming  up  froriT  the  sea,  which  is  to  sweep 
away  himself  and  the  foundations  of  his  house.     Hea- 

*  De  Qnincey  ingeniously  suggests  that,  after  all,  the  truer 
answer  to  the  riddle  lay  in  the  word  (Edipus,  since  he  more 
than  any  other  fulfilled  the  conditions  of  these  three  ages  of 
man, — first  craWling  helplessly  on  his  swollen  feet;  then 
"  walking  upright  at  noonday  "  in  the  vigour  of  manhood,  van- 
quishing the  Spliinx,  and  winning  crown  and  bride  ly  his  own 
unaided  natural  ])Owers;  then,  in  the  closing  scene,  thrust  forth 
from  home  and  country,  guided  by  his  devoted  daughter,  "the 
third  foot  that  should  support  his  sleyis  when  the  deep  shadows 
of  his  sunset  were  gathering  and  settling  about  his  grave." 


26  SOPHOCLES. 

ven  and  earth  must  now  bear  joint  witness  agninst 
liim.  Heaven  spoke  first."  *  For  some  cause  un- 
known to  the  inhabitants,  the  wrath  of  the  gods  fell 
upon  the  state,  and  every  source  of  life  was  blasted 
with  that  curse  whicli  was  believed  to  follow  upon 
crime.  Thebes  groaned  under  the  worst  plagues  which 
smote  the  land  of  Egypt.  Pestilence  came  upon  the 
cattle ;  mildew  bliglited  the  fruits  of  the  earth ;  the 
first-born  of  -women  were  swept  away  by  some  fatal 
and  mysterious  malady.  The  whole  city — and  those 
among  the  poet's  audience  who  had  been  in  Athens 
during  the  Great  Plague  could  realise  the  description 
— was  "fuU  of  the  dead  and  dying."  It  was  to  no 
purpose  that  unceasing  prayers  were  ofi"ered,  and  that 
incense  steamed  upon  the  altars.  The  gods  remained 
deaf  and  dumb  to  all  entreaties.  The  citizens  in  the 
first  chorus  tell  the  tale  of  their  sufferings  thus  : — 

"  The  nurslings  of  the  genial  earth 
Wane  fast  away ; 
The  children,  blighted  ere  the  birth, 
See  not  the  day, 
And  the  sad  mother  bows  her  head, 
And,  with  her  treasure  lost,  sleeps  'mid  the  crowded  dead. 

One  upon  another  driven, 
Fleeter  than  the  birds  of  heaven, 
Fleeter  than  the  lire-fiood's  might, 
Rush  they  to  the  realms  of  night. 
Where,  beyond  the  western  sea, 
Broods  the  infernal  Deity, 
Wliile  our  city  makes  her  moan 
O'er  her  countless  cluldren  gone." — (A) 

•  De  Quiucey,  The  Theban  Sphmx  (Works,  ix.  249). 


(EDIPUS   THE  KINO.  27 

Then  at  last  the  people,  in  their  sorrow  and  despair, 
turn — as  the  plague  -  stricken  Athenians  turned  to 
Perii^ios — to  him  who  seemed  to  be  the  favourite  of 
fortune,  to  the  prince  whose  sagacity  had  once  rescue(. 
them  from  the  talons  of  the  Sphinx;  and  in  the  opening 
scene  of  the  play,  a  throng  of  citizens — young  men  and 
elders,  priests  and  boys — are  seated  before  the  palace- 
doors  of  CEdipus,  with  boughs  of  laurel  and  olive,  the 
emblems  of  supplication,  in  their  hands.  When  the 
prince  asks  them  the  reason  of  their  coming,  they  tell 
him  of  the  plague  and  pestilence  which  "  desolate  the 
house  of  Cadmus,"  and  implore  him  to  lend  his  aid 
in  this  hour  of  their  dire  distress.  Whether  he  be 
inspired  by  heaven,  or  trust  to  the  "  might  of  unas- 
sisted genius,"  let  him  repeat  his  former  good  work, 
and  earn  a  second  time  the  title  of  "  Saviour  of  the^ 
State." 

The  answer  of  CEdipus  is  generous  and  dignified, 
and  has  all  the  complacency  of  gratified  patriotism. 
Upon  none  (he  says)  have  these  evil  days  weiglied 
more  heavily  than  on  himself :  they  have  caused  him 
many  tearful  and  restless  hours.  He  has  long  pon- 
dered over  all  possible  modes  of  deliverance  ;  and  he 
has  done  what  piety  suggested  —has  laid  his  case  before 
the  gods,  and  is  hourly  expecting  an  answer  from 
Delphi,  whither  Creon  had  been  sent.  Even  as  he 
speaks,  Creon  is  seen  approaching,  with  joy  beaming 
froni  his  eyes,  and  with  his  brows  bound  with  a  wreath 
of  "  Apollo's  bays  " — a  badge  which  then  bore  the 
same  sacred  import  as  the  palm-branch  in  the  middle 
ages,  for  it  marked  the  happy  return  of  the  pilgrim 


28  SOPHOCLES. 

from  the  shrine  of  Delphi,  believed  by  the  Greek  to 
be  the  centre  of  the  earth,  just  as  Jerusalem  was  by 
medieval  Christendom. 

For  once  (Creon  avers)  Apollo  has  spoken  plainly. 
It  is  the  guilt  of  innocent  blood  which  troubles  the 
land.  Laius  had  been  foully  murdered  by  unknown 
hands ;  and  until  the  murderer  was  banislied,  or  blood 
was  repaid  by  blood,  there  should  be  neither  peace  nor 
rest  for  the  people  of  Cadmus.  (Edipus  then  asks  a 
train  of  questions,  which  (as  critics  remark)  show  a 
strange  ignorance  of  circumstances  which  must  have 
been  well  known  to  every  Theban.  Creon  tells  him 
how,  when,  and  where  the  murder  had  taken  place,  as 
far  as  rumour  went.  One  eyewitness  had  escaped, 
who  talked  of  a  "  band  of  robbers  "  falling  on  the 
king;  but  these,  like  Falstaff's  "men  in  buckram," 
were  afterwards  shown  to  have  been  invented  to  screen 
his  own  cowardice.  Qildipus  then  reproaches  the 
Thebans  for  their  previous  neglect,  and  announces 
that  he  will  take  upon  himself  the  qfifice  of  discover- 
ing and  punishing  the  unknown  criminal : — 

"  Right  well  hath  Thebes,  and  right  well  hast  thou 
Shown  for  the  dead  your  care,  and  ye  shall  find. 
As  is  most  meet,  in  me  a  helper  true, 
Aiding  at  once  my  country  and  my  God." — (P.) 

Then  the  deputation  of  citizens,  having  secured  a 
champion,  withdraws  in  procession  from  the  stage,  and 
Q'Ldipus  is  left  alone.  "  During  this  pause,"  says  one 
of  the  most  acute  of  modern  critics,  "the  spectator 
has  leisure  to  reflect  how  different  all  is  from  what  it 


CEDIPUS  THE  KINO. 


29 


seems.  The  wrath  of  licaven  has  been  pointed  against 
the  devoted  city  only  that  it  might  fall  with  concen- — . 
trated  force  on  the  head  of  a  single  man ;  and  he,  \vho 
is  its  object,  stands  alone  calm  and  serene.  Uncon- 
scimis  of  his  own  misery^  he  can  afford  pity  for  tlie 
unfortunate;  and,  as  if  in  the  plenitude  of  wisdoni 
aild  power,  he  undertakes  to  trace  tlie  evil,  of  which 
lieTs  liimself  the  sole  author,  to  its  secret  source."  * 
The  Chorus  of  Theban  citizens  now  enters,  and,  ag 
every  chorus  in  Sophocles,  their  first  ode  is  a_  solemn 
pra^'er.  They  draw  a  piteous  picture  of  the  miseries 
of  Thebes,  and  they  invoke  its  guardian  gods  to  stay 
the  plague  which  is  wasting  the  inhabitants.  Let 
them  rise  in  defence  of  the  city  which  has  honoured 
them  so  well,  and  drive  far  a-way  to  the  gloomy  shores 
of  Thrace  the  destroying  angel  who  rides  on  the 
wings  of  pestilence. 

'  Lord  of  the  starry  heaven, 
Grasping  the  terrors  of  the  burning  levin  ! 
Let  thy  fierce  bolt  descend. 

Scathe  the  Destroyer's  might,  and  suffering  Thebes  be- 
friend. 

Speed  thou  here,  Lyca^an  king, — 
Archer,  from  whose  golden  string 
Light  the  unerring  arrows  spring — 

Apollo,  lend  thine  aid  ! 
And  come,  ye  beams  of  wreathed  light, 
Glancing  on  the  silent  night, 
In  mazy  dance,  on  Lycia's  height, 
When  roves  the  huntress  maid. 

*  Bishop  Tliirlwall,   "On  the  Irony  of  Sophocles,"  PUilol. 
Museum,  ii.  496. 


f 


A 


30  SOPHOCLES. 

Thou,  the  golden  chaplet  fair  » 

Braiiling  'mid  thy  clustering  hair, 
To  thy  native  haunts  repair, 

Thy  name  that  gave  ; 
Thou,  whose  brow  the  vine-lees  stain, 
'  Thou,  to  whom  on  star-lit  plain 

*  Evoe  ! '  sing  the  frenzied  train, — 

Bacchus  the  brave  ! 
With  thy  torch  of  pine  defy 
(Hated  by  the  powers  on  high) 
War's  unhallowed  deity : 

Haste  thee  to  save  ! " — (A.) 

Then  Qidipus  addresses  tlie  Chorus,  as  representing 
the  people  of  Thebes ;  and  to  the  audience,  who  knew 
the  story  well,  every  word  in  his  speech  must  have 
sounded  like  the  bitterest  irony,  as  they  listened  to  the 
speaker  unconsciousiy  im'okmg  upon  his  own  head  a 
curse  as  solemn  and  emphatic  as  that  of  Keh.ama. 

He  speaks  as  one  of  themselves — a  citizen  to  citizens 
— "  a  stranger  to  the  tale,  a  stranger  to  the  deed." 
Should  the  murderer  confess  at  once,  banishment  shall 
be  liis  only  punishment.  Sliould  any  give  a  clue  to 
his  discovery,  the  informant  shall  have  a  reward  and 
thanks.  But  if,  after  this  gracious  offer,  the  criminal 
or  accomplice  hold  their  peace — 

"  That  man  I  banish,  whosoe'er  he  be, 
From  out  the  land  whose  power  and  throne  are  mine  ; 
And  none  may  give  him  shelter,  none  speak  to  him. 
Nor  join  with  him  in  prayers  and  sacriHce, 
Nor  give  him  shai'e  in  holy  lustral  stream  ; 
But  all  shall  thrust  liiui  froui  their  homes,  declared 
I      Our  curse  and  our  pollution." — (P.) 

All    tilings  conspire,   continues    CEdip  is,  to   make 


(ED  I  PUS  THE   KING.  3) 

him  stand  forth  as  the  champion  of  the  state,  and  "a 
helper  to  the  god  and  to  the  dead."  An  ilhistrions 
prince  has  fallen,  the  land  is  smitten  hy  the  wrath  of 
heaven  ;  "  and  therefore,"  says  the  king — and  his 
words  carry  with  them  a  terrihle  significance — 

"  And  therefore  will  I  strive  my  best  for  him, 
As  for  my  father,  and  will  go  all  lengths 
1!^  seek  and  find  the  murderer  ;  and  for  me, 
If  in  my  house,  I  knowing  it,  he  dwells, 
May  every  curse  I  spake  on  my  head  fall !  " 

The  Chorus  at  once  protest  their  innocence  and  ignor-^   nC/\ 
auce.     They  ''  neither  slew,  nor  knew  who  slew."  \   (--^V 

Besides  sending  Creon  to  Delphi,  CEdipus  had  also 
summoned  Teiresias,  the  great  Theban  seer,  who,  like 
Calchas  in  the  '  Ihad,' 

"  Knew  all  that  is,  and  was,  and  is  to  he."       ^ 

He  had  heen  deprived  of  his  eyesight  by  Minerva  for 
some  offence,  but  the  goddess,  by  way  of  atonement, 
had  gifted  him  with  such  acute  powers  of  hearing  that 
he  understood  the  language  of  all  the  birds  of  heaven. 
Even  after  death  he  retained  his  prophetic  powers,  and 
Ulysses  himself  sought  the  lower  world  to  learn  from 
his  lips  the  secrets  of  the  future,  being,  as  the  Chorus 
describe  hun  here. 


"  The  seer  inspired  of  God, 
With  whom  alone  of  all  men  truth  abides." 

Teiresias  is  led   in  by  a  boy,  bearing  the  gol 
staff  Avhich   Avas   the   badge    of    his    augurial    offi 
CEdipus  addi-esses  him  with  dignified  courtesy,  speak- 


fice.   J 


32  SOPHOCLES. 

ing  "  as  a  king  to  a  king."  The  Theban  seer  (he 
declares)  is  the  only  saviour  to  whom  they  can  look 
in  their  hour  of  need.  Let  him  therefore  use  all  his 
powers  of  prophecy,  and  rescue  the  city  from  the  curse 
which  troubles  it,  by  pointing  out  the  murderer  of 
Laius.  But  Teiresias,  who  knows  but  too  well  the 
horror  of  the  actual  truth,  refuses  to  answer.  CEdipus 
vainly  protests  and  implores;  and  at  last,  imputing  his 
silence  to  conscious  guilt,  angrily  charges  him  with 
having  himself  instigated  or  actually  committed  the 
crime.  Then  the  prophet  is  in  his  turn  roused  to 
anger;  the  fire  kindles,  and  he  speaks  Avith  his  tongue. 
It  is  I^athan's  denunciation  of  David  :  "  Thou  art  the 
man."  CEdipus  is  not  only  incredulous,  but  furious, 
to  think  that  an  augur  can  be  at  once  so  old  and  so 
vile  a  slanderer,  since  he  can  neither  see  the  brightness 
of  earthly  sunshine  nor  the  pure  light  of  inward  truth, 
and  is  blind  at  once  in  mind  and  body.  And  then 
he  moralises  on  the  envy  that  haunts  greatness.  It 
must  be  Creon,  his  own  familiar  friend,  who  has  con- 
spired with  this  "juggling  mountebank,"  and  has 
hired  him  thus  to  prophesy  deceit.*     His  very  art  of 

*  Seneca,  in  his  tragedy  of  '  CEdipus,'  introduces  a  wild 
scene  of  incantation,  in  which  both  Creon  and  Teiresias  take 
part.  They  repair  at  midnight  to  a  valley  outside  the  walls  of 
Thebes,  where  a  grove  of  oak  and  cypress  overhangs  a  stagnant 
pool  of  water.  There  the  prince  and  the  prophet  dig  a  trench, 
light  a  fire,  and  offer  a  libation  of  wine  and  blood,  accompanied 
by  a  solemn  prayer,  to  Hecate  and  the  Queen  of  Night.  Then, 
amid  the  howling  of  dogs  and  the  rolling  of  thunder,  the  earth 
heaves  and  is  rent  asunder,  and  the  spirits  of  the  legendary 
heroes  of  the  house  of  Labdacus  (father  of  Laius)  rise  from  the 


I 


CEDIPUS   THE  KING.  33 

augury  is  a  lie  ;  for  it  was  CEdipus,  and  not  Teiresias, 
Avho  had  expounded  the  fatal  riddle  of  the  Sphinx. 
If  it  were  not  for  his  hoary  hairs  (such  is  the 
king's  last  threat),  he  should  have  had  such  a  bitter 
lesson  as  would  have  taught  him  the  peril  of  false- 
hood. 

Then  Teiresias,  "strong  in  the  might  of  truth,"  de-'' 
nounces  that  infatuation  and  blindness  of  heart  which 
is  far  worse  than  the  loss  of  eyesight.  His  own  mind 
and  reason  are  clairvoyant,  while  CEdipus  is  ignorant 
of  his  own^birthrignorant  of  the  sin  in  which  he  is 
living.  Fatal — continues  the  prophet,  using  a  .bold 
metaphor — is  the  harbour  in  which  the  king  has  mooi 
his  barque,  lulled  by  a  vain  security,  and  terrible  is 
the  storm  which  shall  suon  break  upon  himself  and 
on  his  children.  A  light  shall  be  thrown  on  this 
luysterious  murder ;  but 

"  No  delight  to  him 
Shall  that  discovery  bring.     Blind,  having  seen — 
Poor,  having  rolled  in  wealth, — he,  with  a  staff 
Feeling  his  way,  to  a  strange  laud  shall  go." — (P.) 

And  Avith  this  terrible  prediction  of  the  truth  echoing 
in  the  ears  of  his  audience,  the  prophet  is  led  from  the 
stage.  Even  ffidipus,  scoffer  and  sceptic  though  he 
be,  is  struck  by  the  reality  of  the  augur's  manner,  and 
remains  sQent  and  perplexed,  pondering  over  the  last 

lower  world.  Among  this  shadowy  throng  is  the  ghost  of  Lahis, 
his  gi'ey  hair  still  dabbled  with  bloixi  ;  and,  bciiic;  conjured  by 
Teiresias  to  declare  the  trutli,  he  denounces  CEdipus  as  his 
murderer. 

A.  C.  vol.  X.  0 


34  SOPHOCLES. 

mysterious  words  relating  to  his  birth,  Avhich  Yoltaire 
has  well  rendered 

"  Ce  jour  va  vous  donner  la  naissance  et  la  mort  "^— 

while  the   Chorus  cannot  restrain  their  terrible  an- 
xiety. 

'  AVlio,"  they  ask,  *'  can  this  unknown  criminal  be, 
that  has  dared  deeds  of  such  unutterable  horror  1  It 
is  high  time  for  him  to  fly,  swifter  than  the  swiftest 
steed ;  for  the  god  of  propliecy  is  already  on  liis 
track  with  the  tardy  but  resistless  power  of  doom. 
Thoiigh  he  lurks  in  some  lonely  cave  or  mountain  glen, 
.the  living  curse  will  haunt  him." 

It  is  hard  (they  conclude)  to  disbelieve  the  prophet 

of  truth — harder  still  to  believe  tliat  their  king,  the 

wise  and  good,  is  a  guilty  and  polluted  wretch ;  and 

so,  until  he  be  convicted  by  the  clearest  proofs,  they 

-will  remember  only  the  good  deeds  of  Qidipus. 

Creon  now  enters,  and  protests  his  innocence  of 
the  charge  of  conspiracy  which  Oedipus  had  brought 
against  him ;  but  hardly  has  he  made  his  protest  to 
the  Chorus,  Avhen  QSdipus  apj)ears,  and  angTily  upbraids 
him  with  treasonable  schemes.  Creon  rests  his  defence 
on  grounds  of  common-sense — much  in  the  style  of 
Henry  IV.'s  famous  speech  to  his  son.  Who  could  be 
so  foolish  (Creon  asks)  as  to  prefer 

"  To  reign  with  fears  than  sleep  untroubled  sleep"  ? 

As  things  are,  he  shares  with  Jocasta  the  counsels  of 


(EDTPUS  THE  KING  35 

the  king.     All  men  court  and  flattei  liim ;  why  should 
he  harter  his  ease  and  pleasure  for 

"  Tlie  polished  perturbation,  golden  care, 
That  keeps  the  ports  of  slumber  open  wide 
To  many  a  sleepless  night  "  I  * 

He  has  no  motive  for  acting  a  traitor's  part,  or  for 
conspiring  with  Teii-esias — 

"  Then  charge  me  not  with  crime  on  shadowy  proof ; 
For  to  thrust  out  a  friend  of  noble  heart 
Is  like  the  parting  with  the  life  we  love." — (P.) 

But,  as  Voltaire  t  ohserves  with  regard  to  this  pas- 
sage, if  a  courtier  accused  of  conspiracy  should  defend 
himself  by  such  a  commonplace,  he  Avould  stand  in 
great  need  of  the  clemency  of  his  master.  Certainly 
CEdipus  is  neither  convinced  nor  reassured.  Creon's 
skilful  pleading  only  seems  to  him  to  prove  that  he 
can  show  equal  skill  in  weaving  plots ;  and  he  is 
proceeding  to  further  accusations,  when  Jocasta  her- 
self enters,  and  strives  to  act  the  peacemaker  between 
her  husband  and  her  brother.  The  Chorus  join  with- 
herjn_urging  ffidipus  to  forego  his  unjust  suspicions, 
This  is  not  the  first  time,  says  the  queen,  wishing  to 
reassure  her  husband,  that  oracles  have  played  men 
false.  I.aius  had  been  warned  that  he  should  perish 
by  the  hands  of  his  son — 

"  And  yet,  as  rumour  tells,  where  three  ways  meet, 
By  foreign  ruffians  was  the  monarch  slain  ;" — (D.) 

•  King  Henry  IV.,  P.  I.  Act  iv.  so.  4. 

t  Lettres    sur    Oidipe,    quoted   by   M.    Patin,    Etudes  sur 
Sophocle. 


} 


36  SOPHOCLES. 

while  the  son  who  was  to  have  killed  his  father  was 
left  to  die  ia  the  wilderness. 

Up  to  this  moment  we  may  suppose  (Edipus  to  have 
heen  fidly  assured  of  his  own  innocence,  and  to  have 
~  regarded  the  denunciation  of  Teiresias  as  the  words  of 
a  madman  or  a  traitor ;  but  suddenly  a  chance  expres- 
sion of  Jocasta  causes  a  gleam  of  the  real  truth  to 
flash  across  his  mind.  AVhere  (he  asks  hurriedly  and 
anxiously)  was  this  spot  "where  three  ways  meet"? 
And  the  fatal  answer  comes — 

L"  They  call  the  country  Phocis,  and  the  roads 
From  Delphi  and  from  Daulia  there  converge." 

Then  Oedipus,  his  suspicions  heing  thus  confirmed, 
in  an  agony  of  doubt  asks  question  after  question  of 
the  queen.  Time,  place,  circumstances,  all  agree. 
Link  after  link  in  the  fatal  chain  of  evidence  is  closed 

.-    about  him,  and  each  answer  only  makes  it  clearer  that 

-'the  words  of  Teiresias  have  been  all  too  true.    The  kin^ 

in  his  turn  recounts  his  flight  from  Corinth,  in  dismay 

at  the  hideous  destiny  foretold  to  him  by  the  Delphic 

^  -V  god.  He  tells  how  on  his  journey  he  came  to  a  place 
wliere  three  roads  met ;  how  he  had  been  pushed 
from  the  road  by  an  old  grey-haired  man,  riding  in  a 
chariot,  attended  by  a  herald  and  servants;  how  blows 
])ad  followed  the  insult ;  and  how  he  had  "  slaie 
lliem  all."  A\v\,  oh  !  the  mockery  of  fate — the  fearful 
"  inmy  "  of  his  tlireatened  vengeance  !  It  is  on  his 
own  head  that  he  has  invo'lftd  that  binding  and  irre- 
ivocable  curse,  which  would  be  executed  to  the  fall  by 


CEDIPUS  THE  KlXa.  37 

the  relantless  powers  of  destiny.     "VVhtit  man  upon 
earth  can  be  more  utterly  miserable  1 

"  Am  I  not  born  to  evil,  all  unclean  ? 
If  I  must  flee,  yet  still  in  flight  my  doom 
Is  never  more  to  see  the  friends  I  lo\e, 
Nor  tread  my  country's  soil  ;  or  else  to  beax 
The  guilt  of  incest,  and  my  father  slay ; 
Yea,  Polybus,  who  brought  me  up. 

May  I  ne'er  look 
On  such  a  day  as  that,  but  far  away 
Depart  unseen  from  all  the  hauuls  of  men." 

There  is  still  a  faint  chance  that,  after  all,  OEdi|)US 
may  he  innocent ;  hut  it  rests  upon  the  chance  expres-'^' 
sion  of  the  slave,  who  had  talked  of  "a  band  of  rob- 
bers." Jocasta,  indeed,  is  still  incredulous,  and  is 
confident  that  this  oracle  will  be  proved  as  idle  as 
the  others ;  but,  at  any  rate,  the  slave  shall  be  sum- 
moned and  examined. 

In  the  pause  of  the  action  of  the  drama,  the  Chorus, 
left  alone  in  possession  of  the  stage,  draAV  the  same 
moral  from  the  tale  of  (Edipus  Avhich  the  Chorus  in 
'  Samson  Agonistes '  draws  from  him  who  had  been 

"  The  glory  late  of  Israel,  now  the_grief." 

Woe  to  the  man  who  walks  proudly,  fearing  neither 
justice  nor  the  eternal  laws  of  a  God  who  grows  not 
old — who  neither  keeps  his  life  from  impious  speech, 
nor  his  hands  from  pro^pjiing  holy  things.  His  down- 
fall must  be  speedy  and  inevitable — 


38  SOPHOCLES. 

"  Climbing  oft,  Pride  seeks  to  dwell 
Throned  on  Fortune's  pinnacle  ; 
Hurried  from  the  summit  straight 
Down  the  vast  abrupt  of  Fate  ; 
Hurled  from  realms  of  highest  bliss, 
Sinlcs  she  in  the  dark  abyss. 

•  •  •  ■  • 

God,  in  whom  for  aye  I'll  trust, 

Holds  His  shield  before  the  just ! 

But  for  the  man  whose  heart  is  knowa 

By  haughty  deed  and  lofty  tone, 

Spurning  Heaven,  and  wrapt  in  self, 

Led  by  sordid  lust  of  pelf, — 

Unto  them  may  Fate  dispense 

Pride's  unfailing  recompense. 

Conscience  !  tliou  to  such  canst  deal 

Heavier  stroke  than  blade  of  steel ; 

Else,  if  man  may  Heaven  defy. 

If  sleeps  the  vengeance  of  the  sky —  ^0^     * 

Why  this  idle  chant  prolong  ? 

Still  be  the  dance,  and  hushed  the  song  !  " — (A.) 

■ —  At  this  point  begins  the  denouement  or  disentangle- 
ment of  the  plot,  in  wliich  Sophocles  was  thought  espe- , 
cially  to  excel. 

A  messenger  arrives  from  Corinth,  bringing  what 
he  conceives  to  be  good  news.  Polybi^te>4,ead,  andM 
(Eclipus  has  been  elected  by  acclamation  Hng  of  "  the™ 
city  on  two  seas."  Jocasta — who,  Avith  a  woman's 
fickleness,  is  on  her  way  bearing  flowers  and  incense 
to  the  altars  of  the  god  whom  she  had  just  insulted — 
meets  the  messenger,  and  is  wild  with  joy  when  she 
hears  her  own  opinion  of  the  falsity  of  oracles,  as  she 
believes,  thus  undoubtedly  confirmed ;  and  she  sum- 


(EDIPUS  THE  KING.  39 

mons  her  husband,  who,  hke  her,  exults  at  the  tidingsT^ 
Who  need  now  believe  that  there  is  any  truth  in  the  \ 
Delphic  god  %       Chance   rules  all ;    human  foresight  l-~_ 
avails  notliing ;  and  oracles  do  but  oppress  the  ruind^ 
like  a  hideous  dream. 

But  it  is  a  false  joy  and  a  short-lived  triumph. 
Qidipus  himself  is  still  haunted  by  a  misgiving  that  — 
the  latter  part  of  the  prophecy  may  yet  prove  true  ;  for 
Meropa,  his  reputed  mother,  is  yet  aliveL  .Then  the 
messenger,  wishing  to  relieve  him  from  this  remaining 
dread,  tells  him  the  whole  story  of  his  birth — how  be 
was  in  reality  no  son  of  Poly  bus,  but  a  foundhng  ex- 
posed on  Mount  Cithseron ;  how  he  had  been  delivered 
by  a  shepherd  of  Laius  to  the  very  witness  who  now 
tells  the  tale ;  and  how  he  m  his  turn  had  carried  the 
child  to  Polybus. 
*  '^tere  is  one  question  still  to  be  answered — one  link 
still  requisite  to  complete  the  cliain  of  circumstantial  ' 

evidence ;  "  Who  was   the  mother,   and  from  whom 
had  the  shepherd  received  the  child  ?  " 

Jocasta,  who  had  at  once  realised  the  truth  from  the 
story  of  the  Corinthian  messenger,  and  who  knows  but  "' — • 
too  well  what  the  answer  of  the  shepherd  must  be, 

a-ainly  trij,|||^  dissuade  her  husband  from  inquiring 
lirther ;  ancT  then,  finding  him  obstinately  bent  on 
discovering  the  fatal  secret  of  his  birth,  she  can  endure 
her  grief  no  longer,  but  rushes  from  the  stage  in  a 
silent  agony  of  despair. 

After  a  short  interval  of  what  must  have  been  tor- 
turing suspense  to  Q^.dipus — an  interval  occupied  by 
the  Chorus  in  idle  guesses  as  to  what  nymph  or  god- 


40  SOPHOCLES. 

dess  could  Lave  nursed  tliis  "  child  of  fortune  " — tlio 
last  fatal  witness,  the  aged  shepherd  who,  half  a  cen- 
tury before,  had  received  the  cliild  of  Laius  from  its 
mother,  is  led  before  the  king.  Forced  to  give  his 
evidence  on  paiu  of  death  and  torture,  slowly  and  re- 
luctantly— for  he  realises  the  horrible  import  of  his 
^vords — he  reveals  all  that  he  knows.  And  then 
CEdipus  utters  a  wail  of  agony  (and  even  across  the 
lapse  of  years  that  loud  and  bitter  cry  pierces  us  with 
terrible  reality) — 

"  Woe  !  woe  !  woe  !  woe  !  all  cometli  clear  at  last." — (P.) 

Then  he  too  flies  in  horror  from  the  stage. 

Again  the  Chorus  mourn  over  the  vanity  of  life,  and 
attain  their  lament  is  like  that  of  the  sons  of  Dan  ini 
'  Samson  Agonistes ' — 

"  0  mirror  of  our  fickle  state, 
Since  man  on  earth  unparalleled  ! 
The  rarer  thy  example  stands, 
By  how  much  from  tlie  top  of  wondrous  glory, 
To  lowest  pitch  of  abject  fortune  thou  art  fallen." 

Their  king,  who  had  once  proved  a  tower  of  defence 
to  his  country  in  her  hoiu?  of  need,  is  now  beset  him- 
self by  countless  sorrows.  Would  that  the  sin  and. 
death  could  be  forgotten,  and  those  guilty  nuptials  ! 

True  to  the  principle  of  the  Greek  tragic  drama, 
that  horrors  should  not  be  acted  in  the  presence  of  the 
audience,  the  rest  of  this  miserable  story  is  narrated 
by  messengers.  Jocasta,  as  we  have  seen,  had  left 
the  scene  suddenly  and  in  ominous  silence :  she  had 


(EDI PUS  THE  KINO.  41 

dashed  open  the  doors  of  the  fatal  bridal  chamber  ;  and 
when  OEdipus  had  followed  her,  raging  for  a  sword  to 
slay  her  who  had  been  the  innocent  cause  of  his  misfor- 
tunes, he  finds  her,  his  wife  and.  mother,  hanging  by  a 
noose  from  the  ceiling,  already  dead.  Then  he  tears 
the  body  down  with  a  wild  cry,  and  wrenching  the 
golden  buckle  from  her  dress,  he  dashes  the  point  into 
the  pupils  of  his  eyes — thus  condemning  himself  to 
that  perpetual  darkness  with  which  he  had  taunted, 
Tciresias.  "  His  feeling,"  says  Bishop  Thirlwall,  "  is 
not  horror  of  the  light  and  of  all  the  objects  it  can 
present  to  hini,  but  indignation  at  his  own  previous 
blindness.  The  eyes  which  have  served  him  so  ill, 
which  have  seen  Avithout  discerning  what  it  was  most 
important  for  him  to  know,  shall  be  extinguished  for 
ever." 

AVell  might  the  messenger  say,  at  the  close  of  his 
speech,  that  in  the  tragedy  which  he  had  just  re- 
counted, 

"  Wailing  and  woe,  and  dejith  and  shame,  all  forms    } 
That  man  can  name  of  evil,  none  have  failed." — (Pi 

All  the  rivers  of  the  earth  could  not  wash  away  the 
pollution  which  clings  to  the  house  and  family. 

The  palace-doors  are  now  rolled  back,  and  (Edipus 
comes  forward  with  wild  gestures,  the  gore  still  stream- 
ing from  eyes  that  are  "  irrecoverably  dark  amid  the 
blaze  of  noon."  The  Chorus,  horror-stricken,  cannot 
endure  the  sight,  and  hide  their  faces  in  their  robes. 
Pity  and  consolation  are  out  of  place  in  the  pre- 
sence of  such  misery  as   his.     They  can   only  utter 


42  SOPHOCLES. 

"broken  exclamations  of  sorrow  and  dismay.     "  Wliat," 

.they  ask,    "has  prompted  such   an   outrage]     Why 

has  he  thus  doomed  himself  to  blindness  "- 

"  As  in  the  land  of  darkness,  yet  in  light, 
To  live  a  life  half-dead,  a  living  death  "  ?* 

ISTo  man's  hand  has  smitten  him,  replies  CEdipus,  save 
his  own ;  hut  he  has  been  fast  hound  to  the  wheels  of 
a  cruel  necessity,  and  it  is  Apollo  who  has  prompted 
such  grim  handiwork.  Corneille  gives  the  spirit  of 
his  justification : — 

"  Aux  crimes  malgr^  moi  I'ordre  du  ciel  m' attache, 
Pour  m'y  faire  tomber  a  moi-meme  il  me  cache  ; 
II  offre,  en  m'aveuglant  sur  ce  qu'il  a  predit, 
Men  pere  a  mon  epee  et  ma  mere  k  mon  lit. 
Helas  !  qu'il  est  hien  vrai  qu'en  vain  on  s'imagine 
Derober  notre  vie  k  ce  qu'il  nous  destine  !  "' 

■ — CEdipe,  Act  v.  sc.  7. 

Then  he  breaks  out  into  passionate  self-reproach,  as  he 
recalls  with  remorseful  tenderness  those  old  famihar 
scenes  of  his  youth — 

"  All  fair  outside,  all  rotten  at  the  core ; " 

the  woodlands  of  Cithseron,  the  court  of  Polybus,  and 
that  "  narrow  pass  where  three  ways  met."  E"o 
guilt  or  misery,  he  declares,  can  be  like  his.  Let 
them  then  drive  him  forth  from  the  city  of  his  fathers, 
and  let  them  hide  him  for  ever  from  the  sight  of  men, 
and  from  the  light  of  day. 
/"•Creon  now  enters,  and,  with  a  nobility  alien  to  his 

*  Sanson  Agon.,  1.  99. 


i 


(E DIP  us  THE  KING.  43 

cliaracter  in  the  succeeding  play,  refrains  from  casting 
eitlier  scorn  or  reproach  on  tlie  fallen  greatness  of  the 
king ;  and  Oedipus,  grateful  for  this  kindnoss,  makes 
his  last  request.  Let  them  hury  her  who  lies  dead 
within  the  palace  as  becomes  a  king's  daughter ;  for 
himself — he  prays  he  may  he  allowed  a  "lodge  in  some 
vast  wilderness,"  far  removed  from  the  scenes  of  his 
misery :  his  sons  can  take  good  care  of  themselves  ; 
but  let  pity  be  shown  to  his  two  daugliters,  who  are 
left  desolate,  and  to  whom  he  wishes  to  bid  farewell. 

Creon  had  anticipated  this  wish,  and  Antigone  and 
Ismene  now  enter.  CEdipus  is  touched  by  tliis  fresh 
kindness^  and  shows  it : — 

"  A  blessing  on  thee  !     May  the  Powers  on  high 
Guai'd  thy  path  better  than  they  guarded  mine  ! " — (P.) 

Then,  embracing  his  children,  he  mournfully  dwells 
upon  the  dreary  life  that  must  await  them,  uncheered 
either  by  a  parent's  love  or  by  a  husband's  affection ;  for 
the  shame  of  their  birth  must  mar  all  possible  happi- 
ness. It  lies  in  Creon's  power  to  act  a  noble  part,  and 
prove  himself  a  father  to  these  fatherless  children. 

Then  the  Chorus,  turning  to  the  spectators,  bid  them 
learn  a  lesson  from  the  tale  of  CEdipus,  who  more  than 
any  other  prince  hud 

"  Trod  the  paths  of  greatness, 
And  sounded  all  the'depths  and  shoals  of  honour." 

Let  them  mark  how  the  favourite  of  fortune,  the 
spoiled  child  of  destiny,  had  fallen  miserably  from  his 
high  estate  : — 


44  SOPHOCLES. 

"  Mark  him  now  dismayed,  degraded,  tossed  (/n  seas  ot 
■wildest  woes  ; 

Think  on  this,  short-sighted  mortal,  and,  till  life's  decid- 
ing close, 

Dare  not  to  pronounce  thy  fellow  truly  happy,  truly  blest, 

Till,  the  bounds  of  life  passed  over,  still  unharmed  he 
sinks  to  rest." — (D.) 

Here  ends  '  CEdipus  the  King,'  as  Sophocles  has  pre- 
sented it  tons.  Its  "sensational"  character  ca\ised  it 
to  be  frequently  imitated.  Julius  Caesar,  Lucullus, 
and  Seneca  all  wrote  plays  bearing  the  same  name. 
Corneille  adapted  it  to  suit  a  French  audience,  intro- 
ducing a  host  of  minor  characters,  and  improving  the 
plot,  according  to  his  own  ideas,  by  "  the  pleasing  epi- 
sode of  the  loves  of  Theseus  and  of  Dirce  " — the  latter 
of  whom  he  supposes  to  be  the  daughter  and  heiress  of 
Laius.  Dryden  and  Lee  again  adapted  it  for  tlie  Eng- 
lish stage,  with  the  inevitable  ghost  and  "  confidant ; " 
and  it  was  so  performed  at  Drury  Lane,  when  Mr 
Kemble  took  the  part  of  CEdipus.  But  of  all  these 
translations  and  adaptations,  none  comes  near  the  majes- 
tic simplicity  of  the  story  as  told  by  Sophocles. 


CHAPTEE    III 


(EDIPUS   AT    COLONUS. 


Years  are  supposed  to  have  passed  away  since  the 
curtain  fell  on  the  horrors  of  the  preceding  tragedy. 
In  the  first  burst  of  his  despair,  the  one  wish  of  OEdi- 
pus  had  been  to  leave  Thebes  with  all  its  associations 
of  guilt  and  misery,  and  to  bury  himself  far  from  the 
haunts  of  men  in  the  solitude  of  the  desert.  But  an 
oracle  forced  him  to  remain  on  the  scene  of  his  crimes. 
Time  gradually  cooled  his  passion,  and  taught  him 
resignation.  Life  once  more  gave  him  a  taste  of  plea- 
sure in  the  tender  affection  of  his  daughters ;  and  it 
seemed  as  if  the  gods  themselves  had  relented,  and 
would  allow  him  to  die  in  peace.  But  Creon  (his 
successor  on  the  throne),  with  the  consent,  if  not  at 
the  suggestion,  of  his  own  sons,  Eteocles  and  Polynices, 
drove  the  aged  king  forth  from  Thebes,  to  be  a  wan- 
derer on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Their  excuse  for  this 
unnatural  cruelty  was,  that  they  feared  lest  he  should 
bring  pollution  on  the  land  ;  but  why  (as  Oedipus  him- 
self asks)  had  they  waited  these  many  years  before 
they  discovered  the  danger? 


46  SOPHOCLES. 

And  so  it  came  to  i^ass  tliat  CEdipus  left  TIicTdgs, 
Litterly  denouncing  the  ingratitude  of  his  sons,  and 
praying  that  sooner  or  later  tliey  might  feel  the  weight 
of  a  father's  curse.  (In  the  "  Seven  against  Thebes  " 
of  iEschylus,  it  has  already  been  told  how  terribly  this 
curse  was  fulfilled.*)  The  daughters  proved  kinder 
than  the  sons.  Ismene  indeed  stayed  at  Thebes,  but 
her  heart  was  with  her  father  in  his  exile ;  while 
Antigone,  with  unflinching  affection,  liad  guided  his 
steps  in  his  wanderings  from  city  to  city.  Q^^dipus 
himself,  in  this  play,  describes  how  her  tender  affection 
for  him  knew  no  rest,  and  how  she, 

"  Still  wandering  sadly  with  me  evermore, 
Leads  tlie  old  man  through  many  a  wild  wood's  paths, 
Hungry  and  footsore,  threading  on  her  way. 
And  many  a  storm,  and  many  a  scorching  sun, 
Bravely  she  bears,  and  little  recks  of  home, 
So  that  her  father  find  his  daily  bread." — (P.) 

The  reader  of  Dickens — and  the  modern  novelist  is  not 
unworthy,  perhaps,  of  comparison  with  the  Athenian 
poet — will  remember  the  picture  of  "  little  K'ell." 

But,  in  spite  of  all  these  hardships,  we  can  well 
imagine  the  delight  it  must  have  been  to  escape  from 
the  polluted  city  to  the  fresh  pure  breezes  of  Cith&jron 
or  Hymettus,  and  how 

"The  pair 

Wholly  forgot  their  first  sad  life,  and  home, 
And  all  that  Theban  woe,  and  ever  stray 
Through  sunny  glens,  or  on  the  warm  sea-shore, 

*  See  vol.  vii.  of  this  Series,  '^schylus/  p.  104. 


(EDIPUS  AT  COLONUS. 


47 


In  breathless  quiet  after  all  tlieir  ills  ; 

Nor  do  they  see  tlieir  country,  nor  the  place 

Where  the  Sphinx  lived  among  tlie  frowning  hills, 

Nor  the  unliappy  palace  of  their  race, 

Nor  Thebes,  nor  the  Ismenus,  any  more."  * 

For  many  months  the  father,  led  by  the  child,  had 
roamed,  dependent  on  the  chance  liberality  of  stran- 
gers, until  they  reach  the  spot  where  the  play  opens, 
the  village  of  Colonus,  a  mile  to  the  noitli  of  Athens, 
the  birtliplace  of  the  poet. 

And  here  let  us  notice  the  contrast,  shown  eveT]_in  . 
the  first  few  lines  of  the  plav,  botwp.rgi   rR.HpiLg  tlio  I 
king  and  Uidipus  the  exile.     It  is  as  great  as  tliat   i 
between  Lear  in  his  palace  and  Lear  in  the  hovel  on    ) 
the  heath.      The  hot   and  furious    temper  hasbeen    I 
chastened  |  the  proud  heart  has  been  hum'bred  in  the    I 
dust ;  the  spirit  which  had  been  so  im]xitieut  ol  t'Jie     \ 
advice  ofCreon  and  of  the  warnings  of  Teiresias — wTltch     \ 
had-tftfmv'n  ini]nous  doubt  on  the  truth  ol  heaven —       i 
has  been  tau.uht  a  lesson  of  patipjire  ri^d  '^'^"^'"TitniPntj 
as  -OEdipus  says  himself,   "  by  his   afflictions,  by  the 

"  (Edi- 


hnuil  f'f  tinir,  by  the  fores^of 
pus^ie  Ureat,"  as  he  had  proudly  termed  himself  to 
the  admiring  Thebans,  is  no  more ;  and  Ave  see  instead 
an  aged  and  sightless  exile,  clothed  in  rags,,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  his  helpless  daughter.  But  he  has  gained 
more  than  he  has  lost.  Those  powers  of  destiny  Avhich 
had  tried  him,  as  he  thought,  Avith  such  Avanton  and 
relentless  cruelty  in  former  days,  are  changed  to  benefi- 

*  Matthew  Arnold's   'Empedocles  on  Etna.'      The  liberty 
has  been  taken  of  slisrhtlv  altering  the  first  few  lines.  ""^ 


t^'' 


48  SOPHOCLES. 

Ccent  spirits  "wlio  guide  him  by  the  hand  to  the  bourne 
of  his  earthly  pilgrimage.  Though  stripped  of  his 
kingdom,  he  has  acquired  peace  and  serenity  of  mind. 
"  The  storm  of  passion  has  subsided,  and  left  him  calm 
and  firm.  He  is  conscious  of  a  charmed  life,  safe 
from  the  malice  of  men  and  the  accidents  of  nature, 
and  reserved  by  the  gods  for  the  accomplishment  of 
high  purposes."  *  Ducis,  in  his  play  of  '  CEdipe,'  makes 
the  king  himself  describe  the  change  "which  had  come 
over  his  troubled  spirit  in  some  eloquent  hues  : — 

"  Sur  mon  front,  cependant,  dis-moi,  reconnais-tu 
L'inalterable  paix  qui  reste  a  la  vertu  ? 
Je  nuirche  sans  remords  vers  mon  dernier  asile : 
CEdipe  est  malheureux,  mais  (Edipe  est  tranquille." 

— ^Acte  iii.,  so.  5. 

The  scenery  of  Colonus  has  scarcely  changed  since 
the  days  when  Sophocles  described  his  bhthplace. 
The  landscape  has  that  enduring  beauty  which  Byron 
noticed  as  characteristic  of  Greece  in  a  well-knowtt 
passage — 

"  Yet  are  thy  skies  as  blue,  thy  crags  as  wild, 
Sweet  are  tliy  groves,  and  verdant  are  thy  fields, 
Thine  olive  ripe,  as  Avlien  Minerva  smiled, 
And  still  Lis  honied  wealth  Hymettus  yields."  t 

A  modern  traveller  J  has  in  the  same  way  described 

"  t>io  rich  contrast  of  colours  which  pervades  this  spot — 

tiie  sombre  green  of  the  bay  and  myrtle  relieved  by 

the  golden  orange -bloom,  the  red  pomegranate,  and 

*  Bishop  Thirlwall.  +  Cliilde  IJarold,  u.  87. 

:J;  Huglies's  Travels  in  Greeoe. 


(E  DIP  us  A  T  COLON  US.  49 

the  purple  clusters  of  the  vine.  Colonus  was,  besides, 
ricli  iu  sacred  associations ;  all  around  it  lay  "  holy 
ground."  Not  only  had  Poseidon,  the  god  of  horses, 
and.  the  Titan  Prometheus,  made  the  place  their  own, 
but  there  was  here  also  a  grove  dedicated  to  tlie 
"  Gentle  Goddesses "  (as  those  whom  we  otherwise 
know  as  the  Furies  were  called,  by  one  of  those  pious 
euphemisms  common  in  Greek  speech),  within  whose 
precincts  no  profane  foot  might  tread,  whose  awful 
name  no  mortal  might  presume  to  utter,  and  by  whose 
shrine  their  very  worshippers  pass  "  in  silence  and 
with  averted  eyes,"  '^— 

But  (Edipus  and  his  daughter  know  nothing  of  the 
sacred  character  of  the  spot  to  which  they  have  wan- 
dered ;  and  Antigone  cannot  even  tell  her  father  the 
name  of  the  stately  city,  whose  "  diadem  of  towers  "  is 
seen  in  the  distance.  The  aged  king,  wearied  by  his 
journey,  sits  do%vn  to  rest  his  limbs  on  a  rough  un- 
hewn stone  within  the  sacred  precinct  of  the  god- 
desses. Then  there  enters  a  wayfarer  from  Athens, 
who,  horror-struck  at  the  apparent  profanation.  Lids 
him  leave  a  spot  where  "  man  neither  comes  nor 
dwells."  But  CEdipus,  who  has  caught  the  name  of 
the  dread  goddesses,  recognises  the  "  sign  of  his  fate," 
and  will  not  move;  and  at  length  the  Athenian, 
impressed  by  the  dignified  earnestness  of  his  tone  and 
manner,  leaves  the  stage  to  summon  his  townsmen  of 
Colonus. 

Tlien  (Edipus,  left  alone  with  his  daughter,  ad- 
dresses a  solemn  prayer  to  the  dread  powers  at  whose 
ehrine  he  is  a  suppliant : — 

A.  c.  voL  X.  D 


fiO  SOPHOCLES. 

"  0  dread  and  awful  beings,  since  to  lialt 
On  i/07cr  ground  first  I  Lent  my  wearied  limbs, 
Be  ye  not  harsh  to  Phoebus  and  to  me  ! 
For  he,  when  he  proclaimed  my  many  woes, 
Told  of  this  respite  after  many  years. 
That  I  should  claim  a  stranger's  place,  and  sit 
A  suppliant  at  the  shrine  of  dreaded  gods, 
And  then  should  near  the  goal  of  woe- worn  life, — 
To  those  who  should  receive  me  bringing  gain ; 
To  those  who  sent  me — yea,  who  drove  me — evil ; 
And  that  sure  signs  should  give  me  pledge  of  this, 
Earthquake,  or  thunder,  or  the  flash  of  Zeus. 

•  •••••■ 

Come,  ye  sweet  daughters  of  the  Darkness  old  ! 
Come,  O  tliou  city  bearing  Pallas'  name, 
O  Athens,  of  all  cities  most  reno'mied ! 
Have  pity  on  this  wasted  spectral  form 
That  once  was  (Edipus."— (P.) 

Tlie  aged  citizens  of  Colonus,  who  form  the  Chorus, 
Qow  enter,  in  a  fever  of  indignation  that  any  stranger 
should  have  ventured  to  set  foot  within  the  holygrove 
jf  the  "  Virgin  Goddesses ; "  and  at  last  QEdipus, 
:aught  by  his  adversity  not  to  "  war  with  fate  "  or  to 
jflfend  pious  scruples,  allows  Antigone  to  lead  him  from 
the  precinct.  The  Chorus,  with  an  undignified  curi- 
osity which  contrasts  with  the  simple  yet  refined 
courtesy  of  the  Homeric  times,  ask  a  string  of  questions 
as  to  the  stranger's  name  and  birth.  When  (Edipus 
reluctantly  confesses  that  he  is  "  the  son  of  Laius," 
they  bid  him  instantly  depart  from  their  coasts,  lest 
he  bring  the  same  pollution  upon  Attica  which  he  had 
brought  on  Thebes ;  and  not  even  the  piteous  entreaties 
of  Antigone  can  prevail  on  them  to  change  this  decision. 


CEDIPUS  AT  COLOXUS.  51 

CEdipus  indignantly  protests  against  such  churlish 
denial  of  hospitality.  Wliat  will  become,  he  says,  of 
the  "  fame  and  fair  report "  which  Athens  has  earned 
as  the  chivalrous  protector  of  the  helpless  and  op- 
pressed, if  they  refuse  shelter  to  a  poor  outcast  like 
himself,  who,  after  all,  has  been  "  more  sinned  against 
tlian  sinning'"?  Let  them  not  bring  shame  upon  a 
city  which  boasts  itself  to  be  especially  favoured  by 
the  gods,  by  dishonouring  a  suppliant  whom  these  very 
gods  protect,  and  who  brings  with  him  blessing  and 
profit  to  the  land.  And  then  CEdipus  wisely  "appeals 
to  Ctesar."  Theseus,  their  king,  shall  hear  his  story, 
and  his  subjects  must  bow  to  his  decision. 

At  this  point  a  fresh  channel  is  given  to  the  current 
of  the  action  by  the  sudden  advent  of  a  woman,  who  is 
seen  riding  towards  Colonus  mounted  on  a  horse  of  Sicil- 
ian breed  :  and  almost  before  Antigone  has  recognised 
her  for  certain,  she  is  in  the  arms  of  her  "  own  dear  sister 
Ismene."  She  brings  news  from  Thebes.  The  curse 
of  the  father  is  alreatly  being  fulfilled  to  the  destruc- 
tion of  his  sons.  An  "  evil  spirit  from  the  gods," 
working  upon  their  own  vile  passions,  has  driven  them 
into  open  war  for  the  crown  of  Thebes.  Polynices, 
exiled  by  his  younger  brother,  has 

"  Fled  to  the  vales  of  Argos,  and  contracts 
A  new  alliance,  anus  his  martial  friends, 
And  vaunts  that  Argos  shall  requite  liis  wrongs 
On  guilty  Thebes,  and  raise  liis  name  to  heaven." — (D.) 

Moreover,  continues  Ismene,  an  oracle    has  declared 
that  the  issue  of  the  struggle  depends  on  CEdipus. 


52  SOPHOCLES. 


r 


"  Dead  or  living,"  his  "body  will  decide  the  fortunes  of 
the  war ;  and  Creon  is  even  now  on  his  Avay  to  take 
possession  of  his  person,  and  to  hring  him  near  the 
borders  of  the  Thchan  land,  intending  to  keep  him  a 
prisoner  there  until  his  death,  when  his  tomb  would 
serve  as  a  fortress  against  the  enemies  of  Thebes. 

CEdipus  is  more  bitterly  incensed  than  ever  at  the 
heartless  and  selfish  conduct  of  his  sons.  They  had 
acquiesced  in  the  sentence  which  had  doomed  him  to 
poverty  and  exile ;  they  had  suffered  him  to  be  cast 
forth  from  his  home  and  country,  when  "  one  small 
word,"  spoken  by  them  in  his  defence,  would  have 
saved  him  from  such  dishonour ;  they  had  rioted  in. 
luxury  while  he  wandered  a  miserable  outcast,  de- 
pendent on  his  daughter's  aid  ; — and  now,  to  suit  their 
own  ambitious  purposes,  they  would  force  him  to  re- 
turn to  Thebes.  Never  will  he  so  return,  he  emphati- 
cally declares— so  help  him  those  dread  powers  who 
are  now  his  guardians.  He  Avill  remain  on  the  spot  to 
which  his  destinies  have  broughtinniT^nd  prove  him- 
selfln  very  trivSrthe  '^  great  deliverer  "  of  Athens,  the 
city  whichh^s_£iviaiJiim  refuge. 

The  Chorus  now  instruct  him  that,  if  he  really 
wishes  to  befriend  tlieir  city,  he  must  first  make  his 
peace  with  the  Avengers  of  the  dead,  and  offer  liba- 
tions in  their  honour  according  to  a  solemn  and  mys- 
terious ritual.  From  a  vase  crowned  with  "  a  wreath 
of  snow-white  lamb's-wool"  he  must  pour  streams  (»f 
pure  water  mingled  with  honey,  turning  to  the  east, 
and  strew  on  either  side  of  him  "  thrice  nine  oUve- 
brauches."     Then  he  may  utter  a  whispered  prayer 


CEDIPUS  AT  COLONUS.  53 

to  the  goddesses,  and  so  obtain  at  their  hands  rest  and 
pardon. 

But  CEdipus  has  not  the  strength  for  tliis  ceremonial, 
and  he  deputes  his  daiigliters  to  pour  the  libations  in 
his  stead — giving  as  his  reason  wliat  seems  an  uncon- 
scious prophecy  of  One  whose  life  was  offered  as  "  a 
ransom  for  many  "  — 

"  For  one  soul  working  in  the  strength  of  love 
Is  mightier  than  ten  thousand  to  atone."  * 

Perhaps,  too,  there  was  mingled  with  this  reluctance  the 
same  feeling  which  made  David  shrink  from  consecrat- 
ing the  Temple.  The  ojffering  to  the  Virgin  Goddesses 
would  surely  be  more  acceptable  from  the  pure  hands  of 
his  daughters  than  from  his,  who  had  been  "  aman  of  war 
from  his  youth."  So  Horace  afterwards  declared  that 
tlie  flowers  and  meal-cakes  of  his  village  maiden  had  a 
sweeter  savour  than  all  the  burnt-oflferings  of  the  rich- 

"  The  costliest  sacrifice  that  wealth  can  make, 
From  the  incensed  Penates  less  commands 
A  soft  response,  than  doth  the  poorest  cake, 
If  on  the  altar  laid  with  spotless  hands."  f 

Scarcely  have  Antigone  and  Ismene  left  the  scene  to 
make  the  offering  in  their  father's  stead,  when  Theseus, 
the  king  of  Athens,  enters,  and  his  chivalrous  demean- 
our strikingly  contrasts  with  the  garrulous  importu- 
nities of  the  Chorus. 

He  will  not  cause  fresh  pain  to  CEdipus,  he  says,  by 
recalling  his  sorrows.     This  "  abject  garb  and  aspect  of 

*  Phimptre's  lutrod.,  Ixxxv. 
+  Ode  iii.  23  (Mcartiu's  TraiisL) 


54  SOPHOCLES. 

despair"  tell  their  own  tale.  An  exile's  misfortunes 
touch  him  keenly,  for  he  has  himself  been  schooled  in 
adversit}' — 

"  I  know  that  I  am  man,  and  I  can  count 
No  more  than  thou  on  what  to-morrow  brings." — (P.) 

CEdipus,  grateful  for  this  generous  forbearance,  tellrf 
the  king  that,  though  outwardly  it  is  but  "a  sorry 
gift "  that  he  brings— namely,  his  own  feeble  body,  in 
bitter  truth  a  "  heritage  of  woe  "  to  its  master — vet  its 
possession  shoidd  bring  no  small  gain  to  the  land  of 
his  refuge  ;  and  not  small  either  (he  adds,  with  a  touch 
of  his  ancient  pride)  will  be  the  conflict  waged  for  it 
between  his  own  sons  and  the  citizens  of  Athens. 
Truly,  as  Ismene  says, 

"  The  gods  now  raise  the  head  they  once  laid  low." 

It  was  with  his  body  as  with  the  bones  of  Orestes — 
another  so-called  victim  of  Fate — which  an  oracle  had 
declared  would  bring  success  to  the  arms  of  Sparta.* 
"  Such  is  the  force  attached  to  expiation  and  the  expia- 
tory victim.  In  his  lifetime  men  pitilessly  strike  him 
in  the  name  of  God,  as  the  scapegoat  of  the  evil  which 
his  death  is  destined  to  abolish  ;  and  in  his  death  all 
men  revere  him  as  the  symbol  of  re-established  justice."  t 
Theseus  doubts  if  any  strife  can  spring  up  between 
himself  and  his  trusty  allies  of  Thebes  ;  but  CEdipus 
knows  better,  from  sad  experience,  the  uncertainty  of 
earthly  friendship,   and    how   soon    there   arise    "un- 

•  Herod.,  i.  67. 

+  Girardiu,  Cours  de  Lilti^rature  Dramat.,  i.  189. 


(ED  IP  us  AT  COLOyUS.  55 

naturalness  between  the  child  and  the  parent ;  death, 
dearth,  dissolutions  of  ancient  amities."* 

"  O  son  of  iEgeus,  unto  Gods  alone 
Nor  age  can  couie,  nor  destined  hour  of  death  ; 
All  else  the  almighty  ruler  Time  sweeps  on. 
Earth's  strength  shall  wither,  wither  strength  of  limb, 
And  trust  decays,  and  mistrust  grows  apace  ; 
And  the  same  spirit  lasts  not  among  them 
Tliat  once  were  friends,  nor  joineth  state  with  state. 
To  these  at  once,  to  those  in  after-years 
Sweet  things  grow  hitter,  then  turn  sweet  again. 
And  A\hat,  if  now  at  Tliehes  all  things  run  smooth, 
And  well  towards  thee,  Time,  in  myriad  change, 
A  myriad  nights  and  days  brings  forth  ;  and  thus 
In  these,  for  some  slight  cause,  they  yet  may  spurn 
In  battle  all  tlieir  pledge  of  faithfulness.  ' 
And  then  this  body,  slee2)ing  in  the  grave, 
All  cold  and  stiff  shall  drink  warm  blood  of  men, 
If  Zeus  he  Zeus,  and  his  son  Phoibus  true." — (P.) 

Theseus  is  convinced  by  the  sincerity  of  Qildipus,  and 
declares  that  he  will  never  give  up  a  suppliant  guest, 
bound  to  him  by  ancient  friendship — so  rich  in  the 
present  favour  of  the  gods,  and  in  the  future  blessings 
which  will  flow  from  his  presence  in  the  land.  He 
will  not  give  liim  up,  despite  of  the  threats  of  Creon 
and  all  his  host ;  "  for,"  he  adds,  with  all  the  pride  of  a 
Bayard,  "my  heart  knows  no  fear" — 

"  My  very  name  will  guard  thee  from  all  harm."         J 

The  famous  chorus  which  follows  is  associated  with 
a  personal  anecdote  of  tlie  old  age  of  Sophocles,     It  is 

*  King  Lear,  Act  i.  sc.  2. 


56  SOPHOCLES. 

said  that  Ariston,  liis  eldest  son,  had  in  a  fit  of  jealous 
suspicion  brought  an  action  against  his  father,  as  being 
imbecile  and  incapable  of  managing  his  own  affairs. 
The  poet,  then,  as  tradition  tells  us,  in  his  hundredth 
year,  entered  the  court,  leaning  on  his  favourite  grand- 
child (who  probably  suggested  the  filial  devotion  of 
Antigone's  character),  and,  scorning  to  otherwise  defend 
himself  against  the  insult  offered  to  his  mental  powers, 
recited  the  passage  from  his  then  unfinished  play 
wliich  describes  the  glories  of  Colonus.  And  the  story 
goes  on  to  say  that,  before  Sophocles  had  finished  reciting 
these  noble  lines,  the  Athenian  jury,  always  susceptible 
to  an  "  appeal  to  their  feelings,"  broke  into  irrepres- 
sible applause.  "  A  dotard  cannot  have  written  this," 
was  their  verdict ;  and  the  case  was  dismissed — we  will 
hope  "Avith  costs." 

Anstice  gives — as  far  as  can  be  given  in  English — 
the  spirit  of  the  original ;  and  we  make  no  excuse  for 
borrowing  largely  from  his  version  (too  little  known) 
of  this  ode  : — 

"  Stranger,  thou  art  standing  now 
On  Colonus'  sparry  brow  ; 
All  the  haunts  of  Attic  ground. 
Where  the  matchless  coursers  bound, 
Boast  not,  through  their  realms  of  bliss, 
Other  spot  as  fair  as  this. 

Frequent  down  this  greenwood  dale 
Mourns  the  warbling  nightingale, 
Nestling  'mid  the  thickest  screen 
Of  the  ivy's  darksome  green. 


(EDIPUS  AT  COLON  US.  57 

Here  Narcissus,  day  by  day, 
Buds  in  clustering  beauty  gay : 

.  •  •  •  • 

Here  the  golden  Crocus  gleams, 

Murmur  here  unfailing  streams. 

Sleep  the  bubbling  fountains  never, 

Feeding  pure  Cephiseus'  river, 

Whose  prolific  waters  daily 

Bid  the  pastures  blossom  gaily. 

With  the  showers  of  spring-tide  blending, 

On  the  lap  of  earth  descending." 

Then,  after  paying  a  tribute  to  the  olive,  a  tree  peculi- 
arly sacred  in  Attica,  and.  the  especial  care  of  "  Morian 
Jove  "  and  "  blue-eyed  Pallas,"  the  chorus  concludes  : — 

"  Swell  the  song  of  praise  again  ; 
Other  boons  demand  my  strain, 
Other  blessings  we  inherit. 
Granted  by  the  mighty  Spirit ; 
On  the  sea  and  on  the  shore, 
Ours  the  bridle  and  the  oar. 

Son  of  Saturn  old,  whose  sway 
Stormy  winds  and  waves  obey, 
Thine  be  honour's  well-earned  meed. 
Tamer  of  the  champing  steed  ; 
First  he  wore  on  Attic  plain 
Bit  of  steel  and  curbing  rein. 
Oft  too,  o'er  the  waters  blue, 
Athens,  strain  thy  labouring  crew ; 
Practised  hands  the  bark  are  plying, 
Oars  are  bending,  spray  is  flying, 
Sunny  waves  beneatli  them  glancing, 
Sportive  Nereids  round  them  dancing, 
With  their  hundred  feet  in  motion, 
Twinkling  'mid  the  foam  of  ocean." 

The  praises  lavished  on  Athenian  chivalry  are  now 


r: 


53  SOPHOCLES. 

put  to  the  proof;  for  Creon,  whom  Ismene  had  de- 
scribed as  ah-eady  on  his  way  to  seize  and  carry  off 
Q^dipus  to  Thebes,  enters  in  person  at  the  head  of  an 
armed  force.  As  the  Chorus  shrink  back  from  hirn  in 
alarmed  surprise,  he  deprecates  their  fears  in  a  speech — 
masterly,  -whether  we  regard  the  purpose  of  the  orator 
or  the  policy  of  the  statesman.  He  compliments  the 
citizens  on  their  noble  city ;  he  condoles  with  the 
sightless  king  on  his  many  sorrows ;  he  commiserates 
the  forlorn  condition  of  the  maidens.  All  may  yet  be 
Avell,  he  argues,  if  GEdipus  Avill  take  heart  of  grace, 
and  accept  the  proffered  invitation  of  the  Tbebans  to 
return.  But  QEdipus  is  not  to  be  easily  convinced. 
Ife  sees  through  the  polished  insincerity  of  Creon's 
speech,  and  denounces  those  specious  promises  made 
witli  "feigned  lips" — 

"  Goodly  in  show,  but,  misp.bipvnnc;  in-aof^ 

As  to  his  returning  to  Thebes,  merely  that  he  may 
bring  profit  to  his  ungrateful  country  and  his  unnat- 
ural kindred — 

"  That  shall  not  be  ;  but  this  shall  be  thy  lot, 
My  stern  Avenger  dwelling  with  thee  still ; 
And  these  my  sons  shall  gain  of  that  my  land 
Enough  to  die  in  ;  that — and — nothing  more." — (P.) 


Then  Creon  throws  off  the  mask :  since  fair  words 
liave  lailecl  mm,  he^vill  use  force ;  and  in  spite 
of  the  indignation  of  the  Chorus,  the  outcry  of  the 
maidens,  and  the  f(;eble  resistance  of  Oedipus,  the 
Tlieban  guards  drag  off  Antigone  and  Ismene  as  host- 
ag(5S  for  their  father ;  and  Creon  even  threatens  that 


(EDI  PUS  AT  COLON  US.  59 

he  will  lay  hands  on  QEdipus  himself.  The  aged  Idng's 
■wrath  boils  over  at  this  last  outrage,  and  he  reiterates 
his  curse  upon  the  robher  of  his  children  : — 

"  May  these  Goddess  Powers 
Not  smite  me  siitu^chless  till  I  speak  my  curse 
On  thee,  tliou  vile  one,  robbing  me  by  force 
Of  that  last  light  when  other  lights  were  quenched. 
For  this  may  yon  bright  Sun-god,  scanning  all, 
Grant  thee  tliyself,  and  all  tliy  race  with  thee, 
To  wear  thy  life  in  dreary  age  like  mine." 

Just  as  Creon  is  actually  about  to  force  (Edipus 
along  with  him,  Tlieseus  enters.  On  hearing  wliat 
has  j^assetl,  he  at  once  gives  orders  to  summon  horse 
and  foot,  who  may  rescue  the  maidens  from  the  Theban 
guards  before  they  cross  the  borders.  He  then  addres- 
ses Creon  Avith  a  dignified  rebuke  for  his  violence  and 
lawless  conduct,  outraging  the  sacred  character  of  sup- 
pliants, and  wronging  a  state  which  "  without  laws 
does  nothing  :  " — 

"  Thou  must  have  deemed  my  city  void  of  men, 
Slave-like,  submissive,  and  myself  as  nought. 

•  ■■••• 

Thou  tramplest  on  my  rights,  defiest  Gods, 
And  rudely  seizest  these  poor  suppliants." 

Creon,  by  way  of  justification,  insults  Theseus  and 
CEdipus  in  the  same  sentence.  He  had  never  supposed 
that  the  holy  city,  with  its  supreme  tribunal  on  the 
Hill  of  Mars,  would  give  shelter  to  a  parricide,  "whose 
marriage  had  been  incest."  The  curse  of  Qildipus  had 
provoked  his  anger — 

*'  For  headstrong  wrath  knows  no  old  age  but  death." 


GO  SOPHOCLES. 

(Edipiis  in  liis  turn  recriminates  the  foul  reproaches 
■which  the  brother  liad  uttered  against  the  sister. 
The  shame  in  such  a  case  rested  more  on  tlje  re- 
viler  than  on  tlie  unwilling  victim  ot^n  fiV^^  ilAcfirLy 


ven  his  father's  spirit,  if  it  could  return  from 
Hades,  would  hardly  upbraid  him  for  crimes  which 
had  been  wrought  so  unwittingly. 

But  Theseus  breaks  off  this  angry  dialogue.  They 
are  standing  idle,  he  says,  while  the  captive  maidens 
are  being  hurried  across  the  Athenian  borders ;  and 
tlien,  with  a  parting  promise  to  Qidipus  that  he  will 
restore  his  children  or  die  in  the  attempt,  the  chiv- 
alrous king  starts  in  pursuit,  taking  with  him  his 
Athenian  attendants,  and  Creon  to  serve  as  an  unwill- 
ing guide. 

The  Chorus  fill  up  the  interval  by  a  bold  flight  of 
song,  in  which  they  picture  to  themselves  the  pursuit, 
the  battle,  and  the  recovery  of  the  maidens.  The 
following  again  is  Anstice's  spuited  translation  of  the 
ode : — 

"Waft  me  hence,  and  set  me  down 
Where  the  lines  of  battle  frown  ; 
Waft  me,  where  the  brazen  shout 
Of  the  Lord  of  War  rings  out 
On  tlie  Pythian  coast,  or  where 
Flickering  torches  wildly  glare. 
Where  on  mystic  rites  have  smiled 
Ceres  and  her  honoured  child. 
Many  a  priest  attends  their  sluine, 
Sprung  of  old  Eumolpus'  line, 
While  discretion's  golden  key 
Locks  their  lips  in  secrecy. 


(E  DIP  us  AT  COLONY  US.  61 

Round  the  virgin  sisters  twain 
Soon  shall  full  the  crowded  slain, 
Theseus  soon  in  mailed  nnght 
Wake  the  terrors  of  the  fight. 

Now  I  ween  in  haste  they  glide 
CEa's  snowy  rocks  beside  ; 
There  beneath  the  western  sky, 
Swift  their  straining  coursers  flyj 
Rapid  roll  their  whirling  cars  ; 
Fleeter  speeds  pursuing  Mars  ; 
Theseus'  train  is  on  its  way. 
Keen  to  grasp  the  destined  prey  ; 
Every  bit  like  lightning  glancing, 
Every  mailed  knight  advancing,^ 
Everj^  charger's  arching  neck 
Princely  spoils  and  trappings  deck. 
Yours  the  vow  for  victory  won, 
Hippian  Pallas  !  Rhea's  son  ! 
Thou  who,  throned  in  coral  caves, 
Claspest  earth,  and  rulest  waves  ! 

Is  the  awful  stillness  past  ? 
Have  they  closed  in  fight  at  last  ? 
Answer,  my  prophetic  soul ! 
Thou  canst  secret  fate  unroll. 
Boon  I  ween  shall  warrior  sword. 
Wielded  by  Athena's  lord, 
Free  the  maid  by  sorrow  bowed, 
Mocked  and  scorned  by  brethren  proud : 

So  across  my  spirit's  dreams 
Joy  anticii:)ated  gleams. 
Might  I,  like  the  soaring  dove. 
Roam  the  aerial  fields  above, 
Her  who  borne  on  tempest  wings 
Forth  with  nestling  pinion  springs. 


I 


62  SOPHOCLES. 

,    Sweet  it  were  from  clouds  on  high 
Battle's  changeful  tide  to  spy. 
Jove  !  whose  everlasting  sway 
Heaven's  unchanging  gods  obey, 
Grant  to  Athens'  champions  brave 
Might  to  vanquish,  strength  to  save. 
Pallas!  Jove's  majestic  child; 
Phoebus !  hunter  of  the  wild  ; 
Dian  !    still  the  woodland  wooing, 
Still  the  dappled  stag  pursuing, — 
Archer  lord,  and  mountain  maid, 
Haste  ye,  haste  ye  to  our  aid  ! " 

These  triuraplial  strains  are  not  premature,  for 
Tlieseus  is  now  seen  returning,  having,  like  a  true 
knight  -  errant,  rescued  the  maidens  by  his  feats  of 
arms.  Great  is  the  father's  joy  at  the  restoration  of 
his  daughters,  and  fervent  are  his  expressions  of  grati- 
tude to  their  deliverer.  But  Theseus  modestly  cuts 
short  his  thanks,  being,  as  lie  says,  "given  more  to 
deeds  than  words;"  and  then  he  tells  (Edipus  that 
there  is  a  suppliant  sitting  at  the  altar  of  Poseidon 
craving  an  audience  with  him.  Oedipus  knows  too 
Avell  that  this  nameless  suppliant  must  be  Polynices, 
the  elder  of  his  sons,  and  is  unwilling  even  to  listen 
to  his  voice.  But  Antigone  joins  her  gentle  pleading 
to  the  request  of  Theseus,  and  Qidipus  can  gainsay 
nothing  to  his  daughter's  arguments — • 

y  "  He  is  thy  child  ; 

/      And  therefore,  O  my  father,  'tis  not  right, 
/       Although  his  deeds  to  thee  be  basest,  vilest, 
(^ To  render  ill  for  ill.     But  let  him  come."— (P.) 

"While  Polynices   is  being  summoned,  the   Choru3 


(ED  IP  us  AT  COLOyUS.  63 

again  moralise  on  the  vanity  of  life  ;  an(l,  IWq  flie 
preaclier,  tliey  "praise  the  dead,  Avliicli  arc  already 
dead,  more  than  TTie  living,  ■which  are  yet  alive." 
VViio  would  pray  for  length  of  tlays,  ■\vJaeh  can  bring 
nothing  hut  sorrow?  Death,  after  all,  is  man's  last 
and  best  friend  : — 

"Of  all  the  dreams  of  bliss  that  are, 
Not  to  be  born  is  best  by  far  ; 
Next  best,  by  far  the  next,  for  man 
To  speed  as  fast  as  speed  he  can. 
Soon  as  his  eyes  have  glanced  on  earth, 
To  where  he  was  before  his  birth." 

And  then  they  point  their  moral  by  the  fate  of 
Qi^dipus,  thus  stricken  with  age  and  misery  ;  and  pos- 
sibly, in  writing  the  last  lines  of  the  chorus,  the  jioct 
may  have  been  thiidting  of  his  own  approaching  end : — 

"As  billows,  by  the  tempest  tossed, 
Burst  on  some  wintry  northern  coast, 
So  toppling  o'er  his  aged  form. 
Descends  the  fury  of  the  storm  ; 
The  troublous  breakers  never  rest ; 
Some  from  the  chambers  of  the  west, 
Some  from  the  orient  sun,  or  where 
At  noon  he  sheds  his  angrj-  glare, 
Or  where  the  stars,  faitit  twinkling,  light 
The  gloomy  length  of  Arctic  night." — (A.) 

Then,  with  faltering  steps   and   shrinking  gesture, 
Polynices   enters;    and  if  eloquent  self-reproach   and 
protestations  of  sorrow  could  have  atoned  for  years  of\ 
unhlial  insult  and  neglect,  he  might  have  gained  his 
end.     He  throws  himself  at  his  father's  feet,  and  appeal."? 


64  SOPHOCLES. 

to  him,  in  the  name  of  that  divine  mercy  which  "  ifj 
the  attribute  of  God  Himself,"  to  forego  his  just  resent- 
ment : — 

"  But  since  there, 
Sharing  the  throne  of  Zeus,  compassion  dwells, 
Kegarding  all  our  deeds  ;  so  let  it  come 
And  dwell  with  thee,  my  father  ;  more  we  cannot  add. 
"Why  art  thou  silent  ?     Speak,  my  father,  speak  ! 
Turn  not  away." — (P.) 

But  OEdipus  answers  him  not  a  word.     Then  Poly- 
/nices  tells  the  story  of  the  wrong  done  him  by  his 
[brother,   of  his  flight  to  Argos,  of  his  fresh  alliance, 
trembling  with  martial  ardour,  he  describes 

"  The  seven  great  armies,  by  seven  captains  led, 
That  gird  the  plain  of  Thebes;" 

and  he  implores  his  father,  in  the  name  of  these  chief- 
tains, to  forget  his  ancient  wrongs,  and  to  join  his 
sti:ength  with  theirs,  that  so  they  may  break  the  might 
the  despot  lord  at  home." 
CEdipus  has  listened  with  brows  bent  and  lips  close 
set  to  this  passionate  appeal,  and  at  last  he  breaks  hl^ 
sileijce.  The  repentance  of  Polynices  has  come  too 
late.  He  has  sown  the  wind,  and  must  reap  the  whirl- 
wind. Then  the  sightless  king,  with  all  the  passion 
of  Lear,  reiterates  those  awfid  curses  which  he  had 
before  pronounced.  Ruin  and  disaster  await  the  host 
that  is  marshalled  against  Thebes.  Polynices  shall 
never  return  again  to  "  Argos  in  the  vale,"  but  shall  slay 
his  brother,  and  be  slain  by  his  brother's  sword,  and 
,0  man  shall  bury  him  : — 


(E  DIP  us  AT  COLONUS.  65 

"  Tea,  curses  shall  possess  thy  seat  and.  throne, 
If  ancient  justice  o'er  the  laws  of  earth 
Keign  with  the  Thunder-god.     March  on  to  ruin  ' 
Spurned  and  disowned,  the  basest  of  the  base, 
And  with  thee  bear  this  burden  ;  o'er  thine  head 
I  pour  a  prophet's  doom  ;  nor  throne  nor  home 
Waits  on  the  sharpness  of  thy  levelled  spear : 
Thy  very  land  of  refuge  hath  no  welcome  ; 
Thine  eyes  have  looked  their  last  on  hollow  Argos."  * 

Heartless  renegade  though  he  is,  Polynices  is  not 
•without  some  touch  of  a  nobler  spirit.  He  has  learned 
his  fate,  and  must  return ;  but  he  will  not  discourage 
his  friends  by  imparting  to  them  the  old  man's  words 
of  doom.  And  so  he  tears  himself  from  the  embraces 
of  his  sisters,  rejecting  almost  angrily  the  advice  of 
Antigone,  that  he  should  lead  his  army  back  to  Argos. 
"  How,"  he  asks,  "  can  he 

"  Lead  back  an  army  that  could  deem  I  trembled  ? "  \ 

He  makes  a  last  request  of  his  sisters — that  they    \ 
will  give  his  body  seemly  burial ;  the  next  play  will 
show  how  faithfully  this  charge  was  kept  by  one  of     / 
them.     And  then,  with  a  blessing  on  his  lips,  and  a-^ 
prayer  that  the  gods  will  keep  them  at  least  fron>all 
harm,  he  goes  forth  as  Saul  went  forth  to  Gilboa,  as 
Otho  beaded  his  legions  at  Bedriacum — knowing  him- 
self to  be  a  doomed  man.     So  touching  is  the  heroism, 
tliat  (as  a  French  critic  observes)  we  know  not  whether 
we  ought  to  condemn  Polynices  with  CEdipus,  to  pity      1 
him  with  Theseus,  or  to  love  him  with  Antigone,  t      — -J 

*  Lord  Lytton's  Athens,  ii.  542. 

+  Patin,  Etudes  sur  Sophocle,  p.  243. 

A.   C.    vol.  X.  M 


66  SOPHOCLES. 

I     The  father,  in  the  modem  drama,  howeyer  justly 

/   incensed  he  might  have  been,  would  have  relented  at 

/     the  sight  of  so  much  real  sorrow.     Accordingly,  in  the 

I      play  of  Ducis,  Oedipus  and  Polynices  mutually  embrace 

in  the  French  fashion.     With  us,  Christianity  transfers 

the  penalty  for  sin  to  a  future  life.     But  if  Qidipus 

had  pardoned  Polynices,  he  would  in  a  Greek  point 

of  view  have   destroyed  the  very  principle    of  filial 

piety.     With  them,  the  expiation  for  impious  wrongs 

must  he  made  by  the  actual  criminal  in  his  own  person, 

and  in  this  world.* 

Suddenly  the  sky  grows  black  with  storm-clouds, 
the  lightning  flashes,  and  peals  of  thunder,  in  quicker 
and  louder  succession,  denote  that  the  end  which 
QLdipus  had  jDrayed  for  at  last  draws  nigh.  The 
Chorus,  terrified  by  "  the  fire  from  heaven  "  and  tho 
incessant  roll  of  thunder,  call  loudly  upon  Theseus ; 
and  the  Athenian  king,  amazed  at  the  tumult,  enters 
hurriedly,  in  obedience  to  the  summons.  QEdipus 
bids  him  follow  where  he  leads  ;  for  to  his  eyes  alone 
shall  be  revealed  that  secret  grave  which  should  prove 
a  bulwark  against  his  foes — "  stronger  than  many 
shields " — and  to  his  ears  alone  shall  tliose  mystic 
words  be  uttered,  which  shall  be  transmitted  at  the 
hour  of  death  to  his  son,  and  to  his  son's  sons  after 
him.  "  Follow  me,"  he  cries  to  his  daughters;  "fol- 
low me,  who  have  so  often  followed  you — but  touch 
me  not.  Let  me  find  for  myself  the  sepulchre,  where 
the  gods  have  willed  that  I  shall  rest  in  peace.     Fol- 

*  Girardin,  Lit.  Dramat,  i.  195. 


(EDIPUS  AT  COLON  US.  67 

low  me,  my  children,  whither  Mercury  anil  the  Queen 
of  jSTight  are  leading  me."  Then,  directed  by  some 
mysterious  agency,  Qidipus  moves  slowly  onwards  and 
upwards  along  the  sloping  ridge,  towards  the  "steps 
of  brass,"  followed  at  a  little  distance  by  Theseus  and 
by  his  daughters,  and  at  last  he  disappears  from  view. 
Then  the  Chorus  utter  a  solemn  requiem  for  his 
soul,  addressed  to  the  Dark  King  and  his  bride,  who 
rule  the  lower  world  : — 

"  If  to  thee,  eternal  queen, 
Empress  of  the  worlds  unseen , 
Mighty  Pluto,  if  to  thee. 
Hell's  terrific  deity, 
Lips  of  mortal  mould  may  dare 
Breathe  the  solemn  suppliant  prayer, — 
Grant  the  stranger  swift  release, 
Bid  the  mourner  part  in  peace  ; 
Guide  him,  where  in  silence  deep 
All  that  once  were  mortal  sleep. 
Since  relentless  Fate  hath  shed 
Sorrows  o'er  thy  guiltless  head. 
In  thy  pangs  let  mercy  stay  thee. 
In  the  grave  let  rest  repay  thee  !  " — (D.) 

A  messenger,  who  had  followed  as  near  as  he  might 
the  small  company  that  had  attended  QEdipus,  tella 
the  sequel  of  this  mysterious  drama.  They  had 
reached  the  brazen  steps,  and  there,  near  "  the  Thori- 
cian  rock  and  the  hollow  pear-tree"  (both  probably 
consecrated  by  tradition),  QEdipus  had  sat  down ;. 
and  after  bathing  his  limbs  in  pure  water  from  the 
stream,  had  dolfed  the  mean  rags  of  his  exile,  and 
clothed  himself  in  a  clean  white  robe,  "  meet  for  tho 


68  SOPHOCLES. 

sepulchre."  Then  came  the  sound  of  suhterranean 
thunder ;  and  the  wanderer,  recognismg  the  sign,  had 
clasped  his  daughters  in  a  last  passionate  embrace,  as 
they  clung  to  him,  wailing  in  grief  and  terror  : — 

"  But  when  their  piercing  cries  an  instant  ceased, 
And  the  first  thrill  was  hushed,  silence  ensued — 
A  silence,  oh,  how  awful !     From  Ijeneath, 
AVith  deep  mysterious  voice,  called  one  unseen. 
Again  and  yet  again  the  god  exclaimed  : 
'  Come,  (Edipus,  why  pause  we  to  depart  ? 
Come,  Qjldipus,  for  thou  hast  tarried  long.'  " — (D.) 

Then  CEdipus  hids  all  leave  the  spot,  save  Theseus 
only  ;  and  when,  after  a  short  interval,  they  return, 
the  Athenian  king  is  found  alone,  shading  liis  eyes  as 
if  dazzled  by  some  unearthly  vision,  and  then  prostrat- 
ing himself  in  fervent  prayer  to  the  gods  of  light  and 
day.  He  alone  has  seen  and  knows  the  manner  of  the 
death  of  Oedipus — 

"  For  neither  was  it  thunderbolt  from  God, 
With  flashing  fire  that  slew  him,  nor  the  blast 
Of  whirlwind  sweeping  o'er  the  sea's  dark  waves  ; 
But  either  some  one  whom  the  gods  had  sent 
To  guide  his  steps,  or  gentleness  of  mood 
Had  moved  the  Powers  beneath  to  ope  the  way 
To  earth's  deep  centre  painlessly.     He  died 
No  death  to  mourn  for — did  not  leave  the  world 
Worn  out  with  pain  and  sickness  ;  but  his  end, 
If  any  ever  was,  was  wonderful." — (P.)  * 

*  The  following  is  De  Quincey's  eloquent  description  of  this 
"  call,"  like  iiotliiiig  else  m  history  or  fiction.  "  What  lan- 
gi;age  of  earth  or  triinipet  of  heaven  could  decipher  the  woe  of 
that  unfathomable  call,  when  from  the  depth  of  the  ancient 


(EDIPUS  AT  COLOXUS.  69 

woods  a  voice,  that  drew  like  gravitation,  that  sucked  in  like  a 
vortex,  far  off,  j-ct  near— in  some  distant  world,  yet  close  at 
hand— cried,  'Hark,  CEdipus  !  King  (Edipus  !  come  hither ; 
thou  art  wanted!'  Wanted!  for  wliat  ?  Was  it  for  death? 
was  it  for  judgment?  was  it  for  some  wilderness  of  pariah  eter- 
nities ?  No  man  ever  knew.  Chasms  opened  in  the  earth  ; 
dark  gigantic  arms  stretched  out  to  receive  the  king  ;  clouds 
and  vapour  settled  over  the  penal  abyss  ;  and  of  him  only, 
though  the  neighboarflX)d  of  his  d:3apo*t.-irance  was  known,  no 
trace  or  visible  record  srurvived — neitiier  bones,  nor  grave,  nor 
dust,  nor  epitaph."— The  Thebau  Siihiux  (Works,  ix.  260), 


CHAPTER    IV. 


ANTIGONE. 


Of  all  the  plays  of  Sophocles,  this  has  Lad  the  most 
long-lived  popularity.  'Not  only  was  it  frequently 
acted  on  the  Athenian  stage,  but  it  has  been  translated, 
imitated,  and  "  adapted  "  by  successive^  generations  of 
dramatists,  from  Seneca  to  Eacine.  The  plot  has  been 
illustrated  by  Alfieri,  and  the  choruses  have  been  set 
to  music  by  Mendelssohn ;  and  only  so  recently  as 
1845,  the  play  was  actually  represented  on  the  boards 
of  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  with  all  the  accessori^ir  of 
classical  costume  and  scenery,  and  with  Helen  Faucit 
as  the  heroine. 

It  is  not  hard  to  discover  the  secret  of  the  enduring 
favour  with  which  the  '  Antigone '  has  been  regarded. 
The  heroine,  who  absorbs  the  interest  of  the  piece,  is 
the  purest  and  noblest  idea  of  womanhood  that  ever 
inspu'ed  a  poet.  In  reading  the  play  we  have  some- 
thing of  the  same  feeling  as  when  we  look  at  Dela- 
roche's  famous  picture  of  Maiie  Antoinette,  All  else 
in  the  painting — whether  judges,  guards,  or  spectators 
— sinks  into  shade  and  insignificance  before  the  one 


ANTIGONE.  71 

grand  central  figure,  standing  out  in  bold  relief  against 
the  darkness  of  tlie  canvas — 

"  Death's  purpose  flasliing  in  her  face."* 

*  Antigone '  has  been  said  to  be  the  poetry  of  what 
Socrates  is  the  prose ;  that  is,  she  is  in  fiction  what  he 
is  in  history — a  martyr  in  the  cause  of  truth.  The 
death  of  both  was  as  truly  a  martyrdom  as  that  of 
any  Christian  wlio  suffered  for  his  faith  in  the  perse- 
cutions of  Nero  or  Diocletian.  Both  chose  to  obey 
God  rather  than  man.  Both  appealed  from  the  law 
of  the  land,  and  from  the  sentence  of  an  earthly  judge, 
to  those  laws  which  are  "  neither  Avritten  on  tablets 
nor  proclaimed  by  heralds,"  but  engraven  in  the  heart 
of  man.  M  e  than  two  thousand  five  hundred  years 
have  passed  since  the  day  when  Antigone  made  her 
noble  protest ;  but  time  has  only  justified  her  cause, 
and  her  voice  still  speaks  to  us  across  the  lapse  of 
years  : — 


/ 


"No  ordinance  of  Man  shall  override^ 
The  s(^ttlod  laws  of  Nature  and  of  God  ; 
Not  Vritten  these  in  pages  of  a  book, 
Nor  were  they  framed  to-day,  nor  yesterday ; 
"VVe  know  not  whence  they  are  ;  but  tliis  we  know, 
That  they  from  all  eternity  have  been. 
And  shall  to  all  eternity  endure."  f 

It  was   outraged   nature   Avhich   made   this  -appeal 
through  the  mouth  of  Antigone.     Creon  had,  by  his 

•   Conington's   translation   of   Horace's   "  deliherata  morte 
fcrocior,"  apjilied  to  Cleopatra. 
t  Thonipsou's  Sales  At lici,  tJo. 


72  SOPHOCLES. 

exposure  of  the  "body  of  Polynices,  vioLited  tlie  first 
great  law  of  humanity,  and  had  committed  an  act 
which  was  at  once  impious  and  barbarous,  detestable 
alike  in  the  eyes  of  gods  and  men.  To  the  Greek, 
reverence  for  the  dead  was  the  most  sacred  of  all 
duties.  In  his  national  creed,  the  ghosts  of  Hades 
seem  more  than  disembodied  spirits  ; — they  retain  their 
bodily  senses  ;  they  remember  the  joys  and  brood  over 
the  sorrows  of  their  former  life ;  they  carry  traces  of 
the  mortal  wounds  or  mutilation  which  caused  their 
a^  /  death ;  and  so,  in  the  Odyssey,  we  find  them  crowd- 
v'*'  ing  to  drink  the  blood  which,  like  an  elixir  of  life, 
seems  to  reanimate  their  veins,  and  give  them  speech 
and  utterance.  To  the  Greek  the  grave  was  not  a 
liarrier  across  which  there  Avas  no  return.  Hercules 
had  wrestled  bodily  with  Death  for  the  possession  of 
iUcestis  ;  Orpheus  had  almost  regained  his  Eurydice  ; 
and  Hesiod  tells  us  how  the  spirits  of  the  just  revisit 
the  loved  scenes  of  their  lifetime,  like  guardian 
ungels — 

"  Earth  haunting,  beneficent,  holy."  * 

But  nothing  could  compensate  to  the  dead  for  their 
cruel  deprivation  of  a  tomb.  Not  only  was  the  spirit 
in  such  a  case  condemned  to  wander  restlessly  for  a 
hundred  years  on  the  banks  of  Styx — a  behef  of  which 
Lord  Lytton  has  made  such  skilful  use  in  his  tale  of 
'Sisyphus' — but  the  laws  of  the  gods  in  the  lower 
Avorld  Avere  violated,  and  tlie  majesty  of  Proserpine, 
the  t^ueen  of  Hades,  was  set  at  nought.     Few  would 

*  Op.  et  D.,  122,  252. 


ANTIGONE.  73 

take  the  common-sense  view  of  Socrates  in  Plato's 
Dialogue,  who  told  his  friends  that,  do  what  they 
v/oukl,  they  could  not  bury  him ;  or  of  Anchises  in 
the  ^ueid,  that 

"  He  lacks  not  much  who  lacks  a  grave."  * 

Tradition  imanimously  consecrated  the  importance  of  \ 
sepulture.  The  fiercest  battles  in  Homer  are  those 
waged  for  the  possession  of  the  dead  bodies  of  heroes 
like  Sarpedon  or  Patroclus.  The  most  cruel  insult  to 
the  conquered  is  that  of  Achilles,  when  he  lashes  the 
corpse  of  Hector  to  his  chariot,  and  drags  it  round  the 
walls  of  Troy.  The  most  toucliing  scene  in  all  the 
Iliad  is  where  Priam  humbles  himself  in  the  dust 
before  the  victor  to  obtain  the  body  of  his  son  for 
burial.  So  strong  was  tlie  feeling  even  in  actual  his- 
tory, that  after  the  battle  of  Arginusae  (fought  in  the 
same  year  that  Sophocles  died)  we  find  the  Athenian 
people  condemning  ten  victorious  generals  to  death  for 
having  allowed  the  seamen  of  sinking  vessels  to  be 
drowned  nnrescued,  and  so  be  deprived  of  a  grave. 
Hence,  without  question,  the  tragedies  which  must 
have  excited  the  keenest  sympathy  in  a  Greek  audi- 
ence were  those  in  which  the  interest  turned  on 
the  violation  of  funeral  rites — as  in  the  '  Ajax '  and 
*  Antigone '  of  Sophocles,  and  in  the  '  Suppliants '  of 
Euripides. 

The  sisters  Antigone  and  Ismene  had  returned  to 


o 


*  "Facilis  jactura  scpxilcliri." — Virg.  iEn.,ii.  646.     Compare 
Lucan  (rii  us.  vi.  809),  "ccelo  tegitur  qui  non  habet  umam." 


or? 


(: 


\ 
.,  J 

74  SOPHOCLES. 

Thebes  after  the  death  of  GEdipus,  and  there  they 
lived,  under  the  guardianship  of  Creon,  with  their 
hrother  Eteocles.  Then  came  the  famous  siege,  of 
■which  an  account  has  been  given  in  a  preceding  volume 
of  this  series.  For  three  days  the  Seven  Chieftains 
had  assaulted  the  seven  gates,  with  varying  success, 
and  on  the  third  day  the  single  combat  took  place 
which  residted  in  the  death  by  each  other's  hands  of 
the-  two  brothers.  Alter  their  fall,  the  battle  still 
raged  on,  until  at  last  MencEceus,  son  of  Creon,  de- 
voted  himself  as  a  sacrifice  for  his  country,  and  then 
the  Argive  nost  were  seized  with  a  sudden  panic,  and 
fled  In  h(iadlong  rout. 

It  istrfi  tlie  morning  after  their  flight  that  the  play 
pens.  All  that  scenery  can  do  to  heighten  the  effect 
has  been  employed  by  the  poet.  In  the  background 
rises  the  palace  of  the  kings  of  Thebes,  and  on  the 
walls  are  hung  six  suits  of  armour,  taken  from  the 
Argive  chieftains.  One  side-scene  represents  the  dis- 
tant hills  of  Cithceron ;  on  the  other  is  depicted  the 
city  itself,  with  its  houses  and  temples,  the  sacred 
streams  of  Dirce  and  Ismenus,  and  the  "  Sca?an  gates," 
still  bearing  traces  of  the  late  assault. 

The  audience,  who  have  murmured  their  applause 
at  the  fidelity  with  which  the  artist  has  brought  before 
them  a  well-known  locality,  are  hushed  into  silence  as 
the  two  sisters  enter.  They  have  come  forth  from  the 
palace  to  discuss  the  new  decree  which  Creon  the  king 
has  just  proclaimed.  By  his  orders,  Eteocles  has  been 
already  buried  with  all  the  honours  of  a  soldier's 
grave ;  but  tlic  corpse  of  Polynices  is  to  lie  "  unwept, 


ANTIGONE.  75 

anburietl,"  .a  prey  for  the  fowls  of  tlie  air  and  tlie 
beasts  of  the  field.  Whoever  disobeys  this  mandate 
is  to  be  stoned  to  death.  "  Now  is  the  time,"  says 
Antigone  to  her  sister,  "  to  show 

"  Whether  thou  hast  an  innate  nobleness, 
Or  art  the  base-horn  child  of  noble  sires." — (P.)      _' 

And  here  we  find  at  once  the  same  strong  contrast 
between  the  characters  of  the  two  sisters,  which  in  a 
subsequent  tragedy  is  seen  between  Electra  and  Cliry- 
sothemis.  Antigone,  like  Joan  of  Arc  and  other 
enthusiasts,  is  so  absorbed  in  her  own  self-sacrifice, 
inspired  Avith  such  a  lofty  sense  of  what  her  duty 
towards  her  brother  demands,  that  she  spurns  all  other 
considerations.  Death  and  life,  honour  and  dishonour, 
]iapj)iness  and  misery,  are  as  nothing  compared  with 
tlie  work  she  has  in  hand.  Ismene,  though  not  less 
affectionate,  is  of  a  softer  temper.  She  has  less 
lieroism,  but  more  common  -  sense.  Her  advice  is 
that  which  prudence  naturally  suggests — "  Why  add 
another  to  the  countless  sorrows  of  the  family  1  Why 
offend  the  powers  that  be,  or  offer  unavailing  resist- 
ance to  the  majesty  of  lawl"  '  — 

Eut  these  prudent  counsels  only  incense  Antigone, 
and  she  breaks  into  a  tone  of  lofty  scorn  : — 

"No  more  will 'I  exhort  thee— no  !  and  if 
Thou  wouldst  it  now,  it  would  not  pleasure  me 
To  have  thee  as  a  partner  in  the  deed. 
Be  what  it  liketli  tltce  to  be,  but  I 
AVill  bury  hiai  ;  and  shall  esteem  it  honour 
To  (lie  in  the  attempt  ;  d\ing  for  liiin, 
Loving  wilh  one  who  loves  me  I  sliali  lie 


t^ 


Y6  SOPHOCLES. 

After  a  holy  deed  of  sin  ;  the  time 
Of  the  Avoiid's  claims  upon  me  may  not  mate 
With  wliat  the  grave  demands  ;  for  there  my  rest 
Will  he  for  everlasting. 

•  •••••• 

Come  what  will, 
It  cannot  take  from  me  a  noble  death." 

— (Donaldson.) 

In  her  "  fiery  mood,"  Antigone  disdainfully  rejects 
Ismene's  offer  to  keep  her  counsel,  and  so  the  sisters 
part, — Antigone  going  to  prepare  the  body  for  burial, 
and  Ismene,  broken-hearted  at  the  thought  of  the 
coming  evil,  retreating  within  the  palace. 

The  Chorus  of  "grave  and  reverend"  Theban  elders 
now  enter  to  the  sound  of  music,  and  burst  into  a 
triumphal  hymn  in  honour  of  the  late  victory,  as  they 
hail  the  bright  sunlight  which  streams  above  the 
eastern  gates.  For  it  is  the  Sun-god  himself  that 
has  driven  in  headlong  flight 

"  The  Ar!ii\'e  hero  of  the  argent  shield." 

Then,  in  the  figurative  style  of  lyric  verse,  which 
recalls  to  the  reader  the  songs  of  Miriam  and  Deborah, 
they  tell  how  Polynices  had  swooped  down  upon  his 
native  land,  like  an  eagle  thirsting  for  slaughter  : — 

"  "V^Hiite  as  the  snow  were  the  pinions  that  clothed  him, 
Many  his  bucklers, 
And  his  helmets  crested  with  horse-hair." 

But  ere  he  could  lay  the  city  low  in  blood  and  fire, 
"  the  dragon  "  (of  Thebes)  "  had  proved  his  match  iu 
war." 


ANTIGONE.  77 

Then  they  sing  of  the  fall  of  Capaneus,  that  impious 
blasphemer  of  the  gods,  who  had  been  dashed  from 
the  scaling-ladder,  torch  in  hand,  liy  a  thunderbolt 
from  heaven.  The  gods  had  fought  for  the  city  they 
loved  so  well,  and  the  seven  chieftains  had  left  their 
panoplies  as  trophies  for  the  Theban  temples.  And 
now  that  victory  has  come  with  the  bright  daylight 
(conclude  the  Chorus) — 

"  Forget  the  wars  that  now  no  longer  rage, 
And  seek  we  all  the  temples  of  the  gods 
With  choirs  that  last  the  livelong  night." 

Creon  now  sweeps  upon  the  stage  with  a  long  ret- 
inue of  attendants,  splendid  in  royal  aj)parel,  and 
carrying  the  sceptre  Avhich  is  the  symbol  of  his  dignit}^ 
He  delivers  a  "  speech  from  the  throne,"  in  which  he 
vindicates  his  past  and  present  policy,  and  explains 
the  reasons  for  his  diflorent  treatment  of  the  bodies  of 
the  two  brothers  in  the  decree  which  had  roused  the 
indignation  of  Antigone.  Eut  in  this  elaborate  ad- 
dress we  are  at  once  reminded  of  the  proverb,  "  Qui 
^excuse  s' accuse."  There  is  a  ring  of  insincerity  in  his 
studious  defence  of  the  prerogative  which  has  put  in 
force  the  late  decree.  There  is  a  covert  dread  of 
opposition  in  the  tone  in  which  he  deprecates  the 
forbearance  of  his  "  good  friends "  and  "  trusty  citi- 
zens " — the  Chorus.  There  is  ostentation  in  his  asser- 
tion of  the  great  principle  of  patriotism,  which  he 
assumes  to  be  the  mainspring  of  his  conduct,  and 
which  he  is  resolved  to  carry  out,  whatever  may  be  the 
sacrifice  of  private  aflPections  involved  : — 


78  sopnocLEs. 

"  There  is  no  man  whose  soul  and  will  and  meaning 
Stand  forth  as  outward  things  for  all  to  see, 
Till  lie  has  shown  himself  by  practice  versed 
In  rulini,'  under  law  and  making  laws. 
As  to  myself,  it  is,  and  was  of  old, 
My  fixed  belief  that  he  is  vile  indeed 
Who,  when  the  general  State  his  guidance  claims, 
Dares  not  adhere  to  wisest  policy. 
But  keeps  his  tongue  locked  up  for  fear  of  somewhat. 
Him  too  I  reckon  nowhere,  who  esteems 
A  private  friend  more  than  his  fatherland. 

Nor  would  I  ever  count  among  my  friends 
My  country's  enemy  ;  for  well  I  know 
She  is  the  barque  that  brings  us  safe  to  port : 
Sailing  in  her,  unswayed  by  sidelong  gales, 
We  make  the  only  friends  we  ought  to  make." 

— (Donaldson.) 

T  Ajxdi  then  he  recites  the  words  of  the  decree, — all  the 

/    honours  of  the  tomb  to  the  brave  champion  who  had 

/      fallen  in  defence  of  hearth  and  home ;  but  as  to  the 

/       body  of  the  outcast  and  renegade,  who  had  brought 

I'        fire  and  sword  against  the  city  of  his  fathers,  it  shall 

lie  unburied  and  dishonoured,  to  be  mangled  by  dogs 

and  vultures.     "  Such  is  my  will,"  concludes  the  king 

(and  we  can  fancy  the  majestic  wave  of  the  hand  with 

which   a   great    actor   Avould    have    accompanied   the 

words) ;    and   then  he   announces    that,   in    order   to 

secure  obedience  to  his  mandate,   a  watch  had  been 

already  set  to  guard  the  body. 

He  has  scarcely  spoken  before  one  of  the  watchmen 
enters — a  personage  alien  from  the  general  lofty  vein 
of  tragedy.     He  is  emphatically  "  vulgar  " — a  true  son 


ANTIGONE.  79 

of  democracy ;  low-hred,  half-educated,  insolent  where  I 
he  dare  be  so,  but  cringing  before  a  superior  will,  with 
something  of  the  coarse  and  garrulous  wit  of  the 
"  Sausage-seller  "  in  the  comedy  of  Aristophanes.  Ilis 
opening  speech  (which  has  been  well  translated  by  Dr 
Donaldson)  will  remind  the  reader  of  Lancelot  Gobbo's 
dilemma  between  the  suggestions  of  "  the  fiend  "  and 
his  "  conscience,"  in  the  *  Merchant  of  Venice.'  The 
watchman  has  been  divided  within  himself — starting, 
and  returning,  and  halting  by  the  road,  "  In  fact,"  he 
says,  "  my  soul  often  addressed  me  with  some  such  tale 
as  this  :  '  Why  goest,  simpleton,  where  to  be  come  is  to 
be  punished  V  Then  again, '  What !  wilt  not  away,  poor 
wretch'?  and  if  Creon  shall  learn  these  tidings  from 
some  one  else,  how  then  wilt  thou  escape  the  penalty  ?'" 
There  is  some  excuse  for  his  unwillingness  to  come, 
for  he  has  been  charged  with  unwelcome  tidings. 
Early  though  it  is  in  the  day,  the  recent  decree  has 
been  already  broken.  "  Some  one  has  entombed  the 
body,  and  is  gone."  At  daybreak  the  watchmen  had 
discovered  the  corpse  covered  with  a  light  coating  of 
dust — sufficient  to  meet  the  religious  idea  of  buiial  * — 
and  untouched  by  bird  or  beast.     Each  had  accused 

*  The  casting  of  three  haiiilfuls  of  dust  upon  the  corpse  was 
enough  to  avoid  the  pollution  of  leaving  it  unhuried.  So  in 
Horace  we  lind  the  ghost  of  a  shipwrecked  and  uubuiied  man 
threatening  a  passing  sailor — 

"  My  prayers  shall  reach  thS  avengers  of  all  wrong ; 
No  expiations  shall  the  curse  unljuid. 
Great  though  your  haste,  I  would  not  task  you  long ; 
Thrice  sprinkle  dust — then  scud  before  the  wind." 

— Ode  I.  xxviii.  (Conington'a  Transl.) 


80  SOPHOCLES. 

his  fellow,  and  each  had  disclaimed  all  knowledge  of 
the  deed — 

"  And  we  were  ready  in  our  hands  to  take 
Bars  of  hot  iron,  and  to  walk  through  fire, 
And  call  the  gods  to  witnoss,  none  of  us 
Were  privy  to  his  schemes  who  planned  the  deed, 
Nor  his  who  wrought  it." — (P.) 

Then  they  had  cast  lots  to  decide  who  should  hear 
the  news  to  Creon ;  and  the  lot  had  fallen  on  this 
unlucky  memher  of  the  force,  who  has  now  actually 
brought  it — no  pleasant  office,  he  says;  for 


o 


"  Though  it  be  honest,  it  is  never  good 
To  bring  bad  news." 


The  Chorus  suggest  that  this  "unseen  worker"  may 
possibly  have  been  a  god ;  but  the  suggestion  only  in- 
creases Creon's  resentment.  "Kot  so,"  he  angrily  replies; 
"  the  gods  would  scarcely  have  favoured  the  man  who 
in  his  life  had  threatened  their  altars  with  the  flames." 
It  is  an  act  of  rebellion  against  his  own  authority. 
Some  evil-disposed  townsmen  have  tampered  with  the 
sentinels ;  and  it  is  "  money"  which  is  at  the  root  of  this 
as  of  all  other  evils.  If  the  Chorus  cannot  or  will  not 
discover  the  traitor — so  help  him  Zeus  ! — they  shall 
be  hung  themselves ;  and  then,  with  a  fierce  parting 
threat  to  the  watchman,  Creon  departs  in  a  rage.  The 
watchman  also  goes  his  way,  naively  confessing  his 
relief  at  his  escape  : — 

"  God  send  we  find  him  !     If  we  find  him  not, 
As  well  may  be  (for  this  must  chance  decide), 
You  will  not  see  me  coming  here  agaiu." — (P.) 


ANTIGONE.  81 

In  the  choral  ode  which  follows,  a  nohle  Iribulo 
is  paid  to  the  versatility  of  human  genius,  and  to  the 
douiiuion  of  man  over  the  powers  of  nature, — true 
i-.ven  then,  and  far  truer  now,  in  these  fairy  times  of 
modern  science,  which  have  eclipsed  all  the  wonders 
of  the  "  Is^ew  Atlantis." 


«  Many  the  things  that  strange  and  wondrous  are, 
None  stranger  and  more  wonderful  than  Mau  ; 

He  dares  to  wander  far, 
Willi  stormy  blast  across  the  hoary  sea, 

Where  nought  his  eye  can  scan 
But  waves  still  surging  round  unceasingly; 

And  Earth,  of  all  the  gods 
Mightiest,  unwearied,  indestructible. 
He  weareth  year  by  year,  and  breaks  her  clods, 
AVhile  the  keen  ploughshare  marks  her  furrows  well, 

Still  turning  to  and  fro  ; 

And  still  he  bids  his  steeds 

Through  daily  task-work  go." — (P.) 

Man  extends  his  dominion  over  the  fish  of  the  sea, 
and  the  fowls  of  the  air,  and  the  beasts  of  the  field. 
He  has  resources  against  all  dangers,  plans  by  which 
he  overcomes  all  obstacles,  inventions  which  can  solve 
aU  difficulties — 

"  Armed  at  all  points,  unarmed  he  nought  shall  meet 
That  coming  time  reveals  ; 
Only  from  Hades  finds  he  no  retreat. 

Though  many  a  hopeless  sore  disease  he  heals." — (P.) 

Pride  is  the  besetting  sin  of  so  gifted  a  being,  and  it 
is  pride  in  the  statesman  which  brings  about  his  speedy 

A     '^■.    vol.  X..  .  >■ 


82  SOPHOCLES. 

fall ;  and  then  comes  the  warning,  like  Wolsey's  to 
Cromwell,  to  "guard  against  amhition" — 

"By  that  sin  fell  the  angels,— how  can  man,-then, 
The  image  of  his  Maker,  hope  to  profit  by  it  ? " 

Suddenly  the  Chorus  break  off  in  wonder  and  dis- 
may.   They  can  scarcely  helieve  their  eyes  ;  for,  hound 
between  two  of  the  watch,  Antigone  walks  in  with 
a  stately  and  defiant  bearing.      At  the  same  moment 
Creon  comes  from    the  palace  -  gates,  and  meets  the 
piisoner.       The    same   watchman    who    had    enraged 
(Jreon  by  his  vulgar  insolence   before,   becomes    the 
spokesman  now  ;  and  this  time  his  tale  is  to  the  point. 
T'he  guard  had  returned  to  their  post,  and,  after  clear- 
ing the  corpse  from  the  dust  which  had  been  sprmkled 
on  it  by  the  unknown  visitor  on  the  previous  night, 
they  had  sat  down  on  the  hillside,  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  body,  to  watch  for  what  might  happen.     The 
morning  had  passed  without  a  sign,  and  the  sun  had 
reached  mid-heavens,  and  still  they  waited,  "  scorched 
by  the  sultry  heat."     Then  came  a  whirlwind,  "rais- 
ing the  dust  in  clouds,  stripping  the  foliage  off  the 
trees,  and   choking  the  atmosphere ; "  and  still  they 
watched,  ^vith  closed  eyes  and  mouths.     Then  at  last 
the  maiden  was  seen,  and  she  nttered  a  bitter  cry  to 
see  her  work  undone,  and  the  corpse  again  exposed. 
And  as  she  was  in  the  act  of  again  sprinkling  the  dust 
and  pouring  a  libation,  the  guards  had  rushed  in  and 
seized  her. 

Creon,  who  has  listened  intently  to  the  watchman's 
story,  now  turns  to  Antigone,  and  asks  whether  she 


ANTIGONE.  83 

has   dared  tlius   to   disobey   the   laws.     "Yes,"    slie 
proudly  replies, — 

"  Yes,  for  it  was  not  Zeus  who  gave  them  forth, 
Nor  Justice,  dwelling  with  the  gods  below, 
Wlio  traced  these  laws  fur  all  the  sons  of  men  ; 
Nor  did  1  deem  thy  edicts  strung  enough, 
That  thou,  a  mortal  man,  shouldst  overjiass 
The  unwritten  laws  of  God  that  know  no  change. 
They  are  not  of  to-day  nor  yesterday. 
But  live  for  ever,  nor  can  man  assign 
When  first  they  sprang  to  being.     Not  through  fear 
Of  any  man's  resolve  was  I  prepared 
Before  the  gods  to  hear  the  penalty 
Of  sinning  against  these.     That  I  should  die 
I  knew  (how  should  I  not  1)  though  thy  decree 
Had  never  spoken.     And  before  my  time  ^ 

If  I  shall  die,  I  reckon  this  a  gain  ; 
For  whoso  lives,  as  I,  in  many  woes. 
How  can  it  be  but  he  shall  gain  by  death  ?"— (P.) 

This  noble  appeal  of  Antigone  to  a  higher  law  only 
incenses  Creon.  This  stubbornness  of  temper,  Avhich 
glories  ^n  crime,  shall  break  and  shiver  like  brittle 
steel.  CM^vg  she  his  own  sister's  child,  or  more  near 
"  than  all  the  kith  and  kin  of  household  Zeus,"  she 
shall  not  escape  her  doom.  But  to  his  angry  de- 
nunciations Antigone  answers  shortly  and  simply, 
"  Does  he  Avish  for  anything  beyond  her  death  ] "  To 
his  question  why  she  had  insulted  the  dead  patriot  by 
honouring  the  godless  renegade,  she  replies — and  how 
faintly  can  the  famous  line  be  reproduced  in  English — 

"  My  love  shall  go  with  thine,  but  not  my  hate."  * 

*  So  the  line  is  rendered  by  Franklin;  but 'the  German  of 


84  SOPHOCLES. 

Ismene  now  enters,  in  otedience  to  a  summons  from 
Creon.  She  does  not  defend  herself  against  his  charge 
of  having  been  an  accomplice  in  the  deed,  but  only 
piteously  entreats  that  she  may  be  allowed  to  share 
her  sister's  fate.  But  Antigone  at  once  rejects  her 
offer.  "  You  have  chosen  life,"  she  says  (almost  in 
the  last  words  of  Socrates  to  his  judges),  "but  / 
have  chosen  death," — 

"  Thou  dost  live.     My  soul  long  since 
Hath  died  to  render  service  to  the  dead." 

Creon  cuts  short  their  dialogue  by  bidding  his  guards 
lead  them  both  within  the  palace. 
if       The  Chorus  mourn,   in  the  strain    which  follows, 
iM      over  the  doom  of  ancestral  guilt — the   sorrows  upon 
\   »\  sorrows  which  have  extinguished  the  last  faint  gleam 

1  AT  of  light  which  had  shone  upon  the  house  of  Labdacus. 

Bright  delusive  hopes,  high  aspirations,  mortal  day- 
dreams, the  glory  of  man  and  the  pride  of  life — what 
^*-^are  they,  compared  with  the  resistless  decree  of  Zeus  1 

"  A  potentate  through  time,  which  grows  not  old." 

"  Shall  judgment  be  less  strong  than  sin  ? 
Shall  man  o'er  Jove  dominion  win  ? 
N(i !     Sleep  beneath  his  leaden  sway 
May  hold  but  things  that  know  decay; 

The  unwearied  months  with  godUke  vigour  move, 
Yet  cannot  change  the  might  of  Jove. 

Schlegel  gives  more  thorougldy  the  force  of  the  two  Greek 
verbs  : — 

"Nicht  mitzuhassan,  initzulieben  bin  icli  da." 


ANTIGONE.  85 

Compassed  with  dazzliiiLj  liglit, 
Throned  on  Olympus'  Jicight, 
His  front  the  eternal  god  uprears, 
By  toils  unwearied,  and  unaged  by  years  ! 
Far  back  through  seasons  jiast, 

Far  on  through  times  to  come, 
Has  been,  and  still  must  last, 
Sin's  never-failing  doom  : 
Doom,  whence  with  countless  sorrows  rife 
Is  erring  man's  tumultuous  life. 

Some,  heeding  hope's  beguiling  voice, 

From  virtue's  pathway  rove  ; 
And  some,  deluded,  make  their  choice 
The  levities  of  love. 


For  well  and  wisely  was  it  said, 
That  all,  by  Heaven  to  sorrows  led. 
Perverted  by  delirious  mood, 
Deem  evil  wears  the  shape  of  good  ; 
Cliase  the  fair  phantom,  free  from  fears, 
And  waken  to  a  life  of  tears." — (A.) 


Hremon,  Creon's  son,  betrothed  to  Antigone 
wlio  is  perhaps  the  only  "lover"  in  all  ancient  tra- 
gedy, so  widely  different  is  the  Greek  drama  from  our 
own — comes  now  to  plead  for  the  life  of  his  affianced 
bride.  Then  ensues  a  scene  familiar  in  life  and  fiction, 
where  two  strong  wills  inevitably  clash — the  son  eager 
and  inipassioiied,  the  father. hardened  by  that  sense  of 
duty  never  so  keenly  felt  as  when  stimulated  by  a  pri- 
vate pique.  The  first  and  foremost  of  all  duties  in  the 
home  and  in  the  state,  argues  Creon,  is  obedience.  The 
family  must  be  one — united  under  the  patria  potestas. 
The  object  of  men's  prayer  for  children  is,  according  to 
Creon,  nUich  like  tliat  of  the  Hebrew  Psalmist, — that 


— and      \ 


86  SOPHOCLES. 

they  may  "not  be  ashamed  when  they  spealc  with 

their  enemies  in  the  gate."     Sons  are  born  that 

f 

!   "  They  may  requite  with  ill  their  father's  foe, 

And  honour  whom  their  father  loves  to  honour. 
But  when  a  man's  own  children  help  him  not, 
What  shall  we  say  he  has  begotten,  but 
j__/ Clogs  for  himself  and  laughter  for  his  foes  ? " 

'Love  for  a  woman — already  doomed  to  death — should 
not  make  shipwreck  of  a  man's  understanding.  Dis- 
obedience produces  anarcliy,  and  anarchy  destroys  the 

_state. 

Haemon  eloquently  entreats  his  father  to  listen  to 
the  voice  of  reason,  and  not  to  disregard  the  public 
opinion,  which  had  already  pronounced  in  favour  of 
Antigone.  Creon,  as  a  sovereign,  cannot  himself  hear 
the  secret  whispers  of  the  people,  or  know 

"  How  the  whole  city  mourns  this  maiden's  fate 
As  one  '  who  of  all  women  most  unjustly 
For  noblest  deed  must  die  the  foulest  death.' " — (P.) 

King  though  he  is,  let  him  beware  of  straining  the 
reins  of  government  too  tightly.  He  should  not  act 
the  tyrant  by  ruling  only  for  himself. 

C*       "  That  is  no  city  which  belongs  to  one." 

But  all  Hsemon's  arguments  and  remonstrances  are 
^unavailing.     Croon's  heart  is  hardened,  and  he  wHl 
nut  let  the  maiden  go, 

"  Lead  her  out 
"Wliom  my  soul  hates,  that  she  may  die  forthwith 
Before  mine  eyes,  and  near  her  bridegroom  here." — (P.) 

'j'his  cruel  speech  exhausts  Hasmon's  patience,  and  he 


ANTIGONE.  87 

huraes  from  tlie  scene  with  a  parting  threat  to  his 
father  that,  come  what  will,  "  he  shall  see  his  face  no 
more." 

Hoemon  and  Antigone,  as  we  have  soen,  are  lovers^" 
and,  even  in  introducing  them  at  all,  Sophocles  had 
gone  a  step  beyond  ^schylus,  with  whom   Love  is 
simply  the  divine  and  eternal  principle  of  fecundity — 
a  law,  and  not  a  passion.*     But  there  is  little  romance 
or  sentiment  about  these  Greek  lovers ;  and  modern 
criticism  at  once  decides  that  Sophocles  has  lost  his 
opportunity,  for  he  does  not  even  once  bring  them  on 
the  stage  together.       Had  it  been  Eomeo  and  Juliet 
thus  torn  asunder — what  tender  farewells,  what  pas- 
sionate embraces,  there  would  have  been  at  the  last ! 
what  sombre  and  funereal  joy   in  the  contemplated      | 
suicide  !  t     In  his  dialogue  with  his  father,  Haemon     I 
scarcely  names  his  love — his  appeal  is  to  justice  and  to     I 
public  opinion  ;  while  his  father  simply  replies  that  he    / 
is  not  bound  to  alter  the  course  of  law,  to  suit  either  a  j 
woman's  caprice  or  "  a  people's  veering  will."  I 

The  Chorus,  half  in  awe  and  half  in  wonder,  cele-  j 
brate  the  power  of  Love — that  irresistible  and  all-per- 

*  The  only  passage  in  which  ^'Esi.-hyliis  dwells  upon  the  in- 
fluence of  love  is  in  a  fragment  of  the  Diuiaidije,  where  Venus 
says,  "The  pure  Heavens  are  enamoured  of  the  Earth;  and 
Love  impels  Earth  to  embrace  the  Heavens  ;  and  Uain  falling 
from  the  Heavens  kisses  Earth  ;  and  she  brings  forth  corn  and 
sh^ej)  for  the  sustenance  of  man  ;  and  from  these  rainy  nuptials 
the  fruits  of  autumn  come  to  their  perfection;  and  it  is  I,  Love, 
wlio  am  the  cause  of  all  these  things." 

t  Girardin,  ii.  326, 


88  SOPHOCLES. 

vading  passion,  mightier  than  kings,  and,  strong  as 
death,  levelling  all  distinctions  : — 

"  Unconquered  Love  !  whose  mystic  sway 
Creation's  varied  forms  obey  ; 
Who  watchest  long  at  midnight  hour 
On  the  soft  cheek  of  beauty's  flower : 
Now  inmate  of  the  sylvan  cot, 
Now  flitting  o'er  the  waves, 
Immortal  gods  escape  thee  not, 
Thou  rulest  man's  ephemeral  lot, 
And  he  who  hath  thee  raves.* 

Thy  magic  warps  the  right  to  Avrong, 
And  troubles  now  the  kindred  throng  ; 
The  look  of  love  yon  destined  bride 

Darts  from  her  pleading  eye, 
A  subtle  counsellor,  hath  vied 
Witli  mighty  laws  and  princedom's  pride, 

And  won  the  victory." —  (A.) 

TVell  might  the  Chorus  now  weep,  as  they  express 
it,  "foantains  of  tears,"  for  they  see  Antigone  led  by 
Creon's  guards  to  be  entomljad  aliA^e  in  a  cavern  among 
tlie  rocks.  The  horror  of  no  death  can  equal  that  of  a 
living  grave,  the  fearful  penalty  wliich  has  been  annexed 
in  all  ages  for  certain  crimes^ — to  the  vestal  virgin  at 
Eome  and  to  the  nun  in  the  middle  ages  for  broken 
vows  of,  chastity.  ]jut_i^iligsiiie  was  pure  from>*in. 
She  had  not  stained  her  hands  Amh~blood ;  niuch  less 


Scott's  imitation — conscious  or  unconscious — does  not  come 
up  to  the  fire  of  the  Greek  original  :— 

"  Love  rules  the  court,  the  camp,  the  grove, 
And  men  below,  and  saLiits  above." 

— Lay,  iiL  1. 


ANTIGONE.  89 

had  she  been  guilty  of  frailty,  like  Scott's  '  Constance 
of  Beverley.'  The  act  for  ■which  she  suffers  was 
prompted  by  the  holiest "  affection.  Hitherto  she 
has  been  buoyed  up  by  the  sublime  enthusiasm 
Avhich  inspires  the  martyr ;  but  now  that  the  sac- 
rifice has  been  consummated,  what  wonder  if  the 
nerves  so  tightly  strung  give  way,  if  for  a  moment 
nature  reasserts  herself,  and  the  lieroine  becomes  the 
woman]  Like  Jephtha's  daughter,  she  breaks  out 
into  a  passionate  lament  —  mourning  for  her  bright 
young  life  so  cruelly  cut  short,  for  those  fair  promises 
of  marriage  never  to  be  realised.  Tlie  cold  comfort 
of  the  Chorus  and  the  consciousness  of  her  own  inno- 
cence can,  after  all,  but  slightly  lighten  the  dread  of/ 
approaching  death  to  her  who  goes  down,  "  living 
among  thd  dead,  to  the  strong  dungeon  of  the  tomb." 
Then  she  tries  to  steel  her  fortitude  by  remembering 
how  others  had  suffered  before  her ;  and  she  recalls  the 
fate  of  Niobe  (one  of  lier  own  race),  whose  children 
had  been  slain  by  Apollo  and  Diana,  while  she  herself 
was  changed  into  stone  : — 

"And  there,  hard  by  tlie  crag  of  Siphylos, 

As  creeping  ivy  grows. 
So  crept  the  shoots  of  rock  o'er  life  and  breath  ; 

And,  as  the  rumour  goes, 
The  showers  ne'er  leave  her  wasting  in  her  deatli, 

Nor  yet  the  drifting  snows  ; 
From  weeping  brows  they  drip  on  rocks  beiieath — 

Thus  God  my  life  o'erthrows."— (P.)  * 

*  "As  a  documentary  reminiscence  of  tlie  m3'tlis  j.roprr  to 
these  rei^ions  (Ljdia),  there  gleams,  even  at  the  present  d::}'',  at 
two  hours'  distance  from  the  ancient  Magnesia,  in  the  sunken 


90  SOPHOCLES. 

"  Yes,"  say  the  Chorus,  "  and  she  was  immortal,  while 
thou  art  mortal ;  yet  for  a  mortal  to  obtain  the  lot  of 
i;nmortality  is  great  glory," 
/         But  tliis  glory  is  too  vague  to  console  Antigone,  and 
I     her  mind  reverts  to  the  actual  horror  of  the  present. 
She  must  tread  this  last  sad  journey  alone,  "  unwept, 
and  unwedded."     She  must  look  on  the  bright  sun- 
light, on  the  streams  of  Dirce,  on  the  familiar  streets 
,/of  Thebes, — 

"  This  once,  but  never  more;  for  Hades  vast. 

Drear  home  of  all  the  dead, 
Leads  me,  in  life,  where  Acheron  flows  fast, 

Sparing  no  marriage-bed  ; 
No  marriage-hymn  was  mine  in  all  the  past, 

Bat  Acheron  I  wed."— (P.) 

Creon  roughly  breaks  in  upon  the  lament  of  Antig- 
one; and  at  siglit  of  him  the  maiden  recovers  some- 
thing of  her  haughty  spirit,  and  proclaims  aloud  the 
justice  of  her  cause  and  her  own  innocence,  deserted 
though  she  seems  to  be  by  men  and  gods.  Looking 
with  steady  gaze  towards  the  tomb  whither  she  is 
being  led,  she  utters  her  last  farewell  to  light  and 
life  :— 

"  0  tomb,  my  bridal  chamber,  vaulted  home, 
Guarded  right  well  for  ever  where  I  go 

depths  of  the  rock,  the  sitting  form  of  a  woman,  bending  for- 
ward in  liergrief,  over  wliom  the  water  drips  andflows  ce;iselessly. 
This  is  Niobe,  the  mother  of  tlie  Phrygian  mountains,  who 
saw  her  happy  offspring,  the  rivulets,  playing  round  lier,  till 
they  were  all  carried  away  by  the  day-heat  of  the  sun." — 
Curtins's  Hist,  of  Greece,  i.  81. 


ANTIGONE.  91 

To  join  mine  own,  of  whom  tlie  greater  part 
Among  the  dead  doth  Persephassa*  hold  ; 
And  I,  of  all  the  last  and  saddest,  wend 
My  way  below,  life's  little  span  uulilled." — (P.) 

And  then,  as  Socrates,  her  antitype,  tries  to  console 
Jiimself  and  his  friends  with  the  thought  that  if  death 
be  not  anniliilation  or  a  dreamless  sleep,  he  may  pace 
Elysian  fields,  and  converse  with  the  spirits  of  the  good 
and  wise ;  so  the  maiden  dwells  upon  the  hope  that 
in  death  she  too  may  not  be  divided  from  those  who 
were  nearest  and  dearest  to  her  on  earth — that  she  may 
meet  her  father  and  her  mother,  and  the  brother  for 
whom  she  has  sacrificed  everything.  But  then  again 
there  swells  up  in  her  heart  the  remembrance  of  the 
pleasant  life  she  is  about  to  leave  : — 

*'  Cut  off  from  marriage-bed  and  marriage-song, 

Untasting  wife's  true  joy  or  mother's  bliss, 

Bereaved  of  friends,  in  utter  misery. 

Alive  I  tread  the  chambers  of  the  dead. 

What  law  of  heaven  have  I  transgressed  against  ? 

What  use  for  me,  ill-starred  one,  still  to  look 

To  any  god  for  succour,  or  to  call 

On  any  friend  for  aid  ?     For  holiest  deed 

I  bear  the  charge  of  rank  unholiness. 

If  acts  like  these  the  gods  on  high  ajiprove, 

AVe,  taught  by  pain,  shall  see  that  we  have  sinned  ; 

But  if  these  sin  [loohing  at  Creon],  I  pray  they  sutler  not 

Worse  evils  than  the  wrongs  they  do  to  me." — (P.) 

And  then  she  passes  from  the  scene.     We  may  pity 
her — indeed  who  could  not  1 — but  we  can  hardly  real- 
ise the  extent  of  her  self-sacrifice.     Like  the  Decii  or 
*  The  Greek  form  of  "  Proserpine." 


92  SOPHOCLES. 

otliers  who  devoted  themselves  for  a  noLIe  cause,  slie 
"  surrendered  all,  and  looked  forward  to  nothing  but 
the  joyless  asphodel  meadow,  and  '  drear  Cooytus,  with 
its  languid  stream.'  "  *  There  Avas  not  even  the  expec- 
tancy of  a  material  happiness,  such  as  consoles  the 
dying  Islamite.  To  the  Greek  maiden  all  beyond  the 
Styx  was  dim,  shadowy,  and  spectral  as  the  ghosts 
with  which  Homer  peopled  Hades. 

Retribution,  in  the  drama,  follows  closely  upon 
crime.  Scarcely  has  Antigone  been  led  away  to  death 
— scarcely  have  the  Chorus  ended  their  dirge  in  her 
memory,  in  which  they  illustrate  the  law  of  suffering, 
from  which  even  gods  are  not  exempt — when  Teire- 
sias,  the  blind  prophet,  whose  approach  is  always, 
ominous  of  woe,  confronts  Creon,  as  Elijah  confronted 
Ahab  on  his  return  from  the  vineyard  Avhither  he  had 
gone  up  to  take  possession.  The  augur  has  read  signs 
of  coming  disaster  portended  in  the  heavens  above  and 
in  the  earth  beneath.  To  Xeiresias,  as  to  Elijah,  "  the 
horizon  was  darkened  with  the  visions  of  vultures 
glutting  on  the  carcases  of  the  dead,  and  the  packs  of 
savage  dogs  feeding  on  their  remains,  or  lapping  up 
tlieir  blood."  t  Seated  on  his  •' old  augurial  throne," 
he  has  heard  a  strange  clamour  of  birds  battling  in  the 
air,  and  tearing  each  other's  flesh.  Instead  of  the 
wonted  flame  rising  bright  and  clear  from  the  altar, 
the  sacred  fire  had  but  smoked  and  spluttered  ;  the  vic- 
tim's flesh  had  fallen  to  the  ground  and  Avasted ;  every 
shrine  and  hearth  was  full  of  unclean  food. 

*  Ecce  Homo,  ch.  xL 

t  Stanley's  Lectures  on  the  Jewisli  Churcli,  ii.  314. 


ANTIGONE.  93 

**  The  gorls  no  more  hear  prayers  of  sacrifice, 
Nor  own  the  flame  tluit  burns  the  victim's  limbs  ; 
Nor  do  the  birds  give  cry  of  omen  good, 
But  feed  on  carrion  of  a  slaughtered  corpse." — (P.) 

Let  the  king,  then,  concludes  the  seer,  listen  to 
good  counsel,  and  not  reverse  the  common  laws  of 
humanity.  Let  him  restore  Antigone  to  the  upper  air^ 
and  bury  Polynices. 

But  Creon,  like  (Edipus  before  him,  is  deaf  to  the 
voice  of  prophecy,  and  scorns  repentance  or  atonement 
till  repentance  and  atonement  come  too  late.  Like 
Glldipus,  he  adds  impiety  to  crime,  and  in  the  stub- 
bornness of  his  pride  utters  blasphemous  words  which 
must  have  outraged  the  pious  sense  of  the  Athenian 
audience.  Teiresias  may  play  his  "  augur's  tricks  "  on 
others,  and  make  his  gains  of  amber  from  Sardis  and 
gold  from  India  ;  but 

"  That  corpse  ye  shall  not  hide  in  any  tomb. 
Not  though  the  eagles,  birds  of  Zeus,  should  bear 
Tlieir  carrion  morsels  to  the  throne  of  God, — 
Not  even  fearing  this  pollution  dire, 
Will  I  consent  to  burial."— (P.) 

And  then,  inspired  by  his  evil  genius  (or,  as  the 
Greeks  would  have  put  it,  infatuated  by  Ate,  the  demon- 
goddess  of  destruction),  Creon  adds  insult  to  reproach, 
until  the  prophet,  sorely  vexed,  declares  the  doom' 
which  awaits  the  shedder  of  innocent  blood.  Sorrow 
shall  come  upon  his  own  house ;  few  and  evil  shall  be 
the  days  that  remain  of  his  life.  The  sun  shall  not 
rise  and  set  again  before  he  shall  repay  blood  for 
blood ; — 


94  SOPHOCLES. 

f'  "For  that  thou 

I        Hast  to  the  ground  cast  one  that  walked  on  earth, 
\       And  foully  placed  within  the  sepulchre 
I      A  living  soul ;  and  now  they  wait  for  thee, 
I       The  sure  though  slow  avengers  of  the  grave, 
^— ^le  dread  Erinyes  of  the  mighty  gods."—  (P.) 

There  shall  be  wailing  and  lamentation  in  the  palace 
of  Thebes,  .and  the  cities  round  shall  rise  in  arms 
again-st  the  polluter  of  the  holiest  and  most  universal 
law  of  nature. 

Creon,  overawed  by  the  reality  of  this  prediction, 
is  smitten  Avith  remorse  almost  before  Teiresias  is  led 
from  the  stage.  He  will  yield  to  necessity,  and  he 
summons  his  attendants  to  bring  axes  that  may  break 
open  the  tomb  while  there  is  yet  time  to  release  the 
maiden. 

Then  the  Chorus  utter  a  fervent  prayer  to  Bacchus, 
"the  god  of  many  names,"  to  come  to  the  rescue  of 
Thebes,  the  city  of  his  mother,  Semele  : — 

"  Prince  of  each  silver  star 
That  breathes  through  darkness  its  celestial  light,— 
Lord  of  the  train  who  on  the  car  of  night 

Swell  tlieir  wild  hymns  afar, — 
Blest  youth  !  high  offspring  of  eternal  Jove  ! 

Haste,  aiiil  thy  fair  attendants  bring, 
Those  Naxian  nymphs  the  livelong  night  who  rove, 

Dancing  around  thy  throne  in  festive  ring, 

And  shout  lacchus'  name,  their  leader  and  their  king," 

-(D.) 

Events  croAvd  on  one  another  in  rapid  succession,  as 
the  action  hurries  on  to  the  catastrojihe.     In  accord* 


ANTIGONE.  95 

ance  with  the  usual  machinery  of  Greek  tragedj^, 
the  messenger  of  evil  tidings  enters,  and  in  one  line 
tells  his  story  : — 

"  Bathed  in  his  hlood,  all  lifeless,  Hsemon  lies." 

Eurydice,  the  queen  -  mother,  passing  by  on  her  way 
to  the  shrine  of  Minerva,  overhears  his  words,  and  in 
an  agony  of  terror  demands  to  be  told  the  whole  truth. 
Then  follows  the  tale  of  doom. 

Creon   had  hurried  to    make  what    atonement   he 
might  to  the  outraged  corpse  of  Polynices.     It  stiU 
lay  upon  the  plain  where  tlie  watchmen  had  left  it, 
torn  and  mangled  by  the  dogs,  holding  their  carnival 
around   the   dea<^.     After  prayer  had  been  made  to 
the  "  Goddess  of  Pathways,"*  Croon's  attendants  rever- 
ently wash  the  body  in  pure  water,  burn  the  remains, 
and  raise  a  mound  of  earth.     Then  they  take  their 
way  to  "  death's  marriage-chaniber,"  in  which  Antig- 
one had  been  immured.     Even  before  they  reach  it,  a 
shrill  cry  of  lamentation  breaks  upon  their  ears ;  and 
with  a  heart  foreboding  the  worst,   Creon  bids  his 
slaves  roll  away  the  stones  and  widen   the   entrance 
to  the  tomb.     The  sight  which  meets  their  eyes,  as 
the  set  scene  in  the  background  opens,  is  piteous  be- 
yond all  expression.     The  messenger  continues  : — 

"  In  the  farthest  corner  of  the  vault 
"We  saw  lier  hanging  by  her  neck,  with  cord 
Of  linen  threads  entwined,  and  him  we  found 
Clasping  her  form  in  passionate  embrace." — (P.) 

*  rrosorpiue  or  Hecate — the  goddess  wlio  guarded  the  high- 
ways whiuli  were  polluted  by  the  uuburied  body  of  Polynicea 


96  SOPHOCLES. 

Tlien  Creon,  groaning  in  the  "bitterness  of  his  heart, 
entreats  his  son  to  leave  the  body  and  to  come  forth 
from  the  ill-omened  chamher.  Hsemon  answers  not, 
hut,  glaring  with  angry  eyes,  draws  his  sword ;  and 
as  his  father,  believing  his  own  life  to  be  threatened, 
starts  back  in  terror,  the  unfortunate  youth  buries  the 
blade  in  his  own  body,  and  falls  forwards  on  the  earth, 
still  clasping  the  dead  Antigone  : — 

"  Yet  ever,  while  dim  sense 
Struggled  within  the  fast-expiring  soul, 
Feebler  and  feebler  still  his  stiffening  limbs 
Clung  to  that  virgin  form,  and  every  gasp 
Of  liis  last  breath  with  bloody  deAvs  distained 
The  cold  white  cheek  that  was  his  pillow.     So 
Lies  death  embracing  death." — (Lord  Lytton.)  * 

Eut  the  doom  of  the  house  of  Oedipus  is  not  yet 
consummated.  Eurydice  had  heard  to  the  end  the 
tale  of  the  messenger,  and  had  then  rushed  into  the 
palace  without  a  word  or  cry.  The  Chorus  argue  the 
worst  from  this  ominous  silence ;  and  their  fears  are 
fulfilled,  for  hardly  has  Creon  again  come  upon  the 
stage,  bearing  the  dead  body  of  his  son  in  his  arms, 
"whon  he  is  met  by  a  second  messenger  with  the  news 
that  the  queen,  his  wife,  has  stabbed  herself  to  the 
heart  with  a  mortal  blow. 

Ami  here  the  horror  culminates.     ISTo thing  can  be 

*  We  are  at  once  reminded  of  the  last  scene  in  '  Eomeo  and 

Juliet,'  where  rescue  and  explanation  come  too  late  to  save  the 
lovers,  and  where  the  tomb  of  the  Ca})ulets  is,  as  the  Friar 
says,  "a  nest 

*'  Of  death,  contagion,  and  unnatural  sleep." 


ANTIGONE.  97 

added  to  increase  the  agony  and  remorse  of  Creon — 
left  living,  it  is  true,  but  more  to  be  pitied  than  the 
dead  themselves,- — crushed  and  humbled  in  the  dust, 
all  joy  in  life,  all  domestic  ha])piness,  all  peace  of 
mind  gone  for  ever.  Above  all,  he  is_  tormented  by 
the  consciousiiess  thatr  '^'  ^'^  ^^""  "'^'^"  stnliborn  pridfi^ 
and  not  his  evil  destiny,  that  has  thus  made  him  the 
murderer  of  son  arid  wile.  *'  Heaven  has  sorely  smitten 
me,"  he^'ays, — 

"  And  I  know  not 
Wliich  way  to  look  or  turn.     All  near  at  hand 
Is  turned  to  evil  ;  and  upon  my  head 
There  falls  a  doom  far  worse  than  I  can  bear." — (P.) 


/ 


A.  0.  voL  S. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   DEATH   OF   A  J  AX, 

Op  all  heroic  families,  perhaps  none  were  more  famous 
than  that  of  the  ^acidse,  to  -which  Ajax,  the  hero  of 
this  tragedy,  belonged,  -^acus,  the  founder  of  the 
race,  was  a  son  of  Jove,  and  he  married  a  daughter  of 
the  centaur  Chiron,  from  whom  two  sons  were  horn  to 
him,  Peleus  and  Telamon.  Peleus  married  tlie  sea- 
nymph,  "  silver-footed  "  Thetis,  and  by  her  had  Achil- 
les ;  while  Telamon  took  to  wife  Eriboea,  who  bore 
him  Ajax.  The  cousins  were  both  mighty  warriors, 
renowned  beyond  all  the  other  Greeks  in  the  siege  of 
Troy;  but  in  character  and  appearance  they  were  as 
different  as  Athelstane  and  Ivanhoe.  Achilles  was  tne 
true  knight  of  chivalry,  brave,  graceful,  and  courteous, 
but  high-spirited  and  passionate.  Ajax  Avas  a  man  of 
war,  of  huge  bulk  and  ponderous  strength,  taller  than  all 
the  rest  by  the  head  and  shoulders.  More  than  once  his 
single  right  arm  had  saved  the  army  from  destruction, — 

"  Stemming  the  war  as  stems  a  torrent's  force 
Some  wooded  cliff  far  reaching  o'er  the  plain,"* — 

*  Lord  Derby's  Homer,  II.  xvii.  847. 


THE  DEATH  OF  A  J  AX.  99 

keeping  his  foes  at  loay,  and  then  slowly  retreating, 
covered  by  his  shield  of  bull's  hide,  "  huge  as  a  tower." 
But  he  had  waxed  insolent  in  the  pride  of  his  strenglli, 
and  more  than  once  (as  we  are  told  in  the  play)  his 
arrogant  and  impious  words  had  provoked  the  anger  of 
the  gods.  When  he  first  left  Salamis,  his  father,  per- 
haps foreseeing  the  trouble  which  his  haughty  spirit 
was  doomed  to  bring  upon  him,  had  given  him  pru- 
dent advice : — 

"  Seek,  my  son,  in  fight. 
To  conquer,  but  still  conquer  through  the  gods." 

But  Ajax,  like  the  old  Norseman,  **  put  his  trust 
neither  in  idols  nor  demons,  but  in  his  own  battle- 
axe,"  and  his  reply  was, — 

"  Father,  with  heavenly  aid  a  coward's  hand 
May  grasp  the  prize  of  conquest ;  I  confide 
To  win  such  tropliies  e'en  without  the  gods." — (D.) 

Again,  in  the  heat  of  battle,  when  Minerva  herself  had 
urged  him  to  turn  his  arms  where  she  led  the  way, 
he  had  defiantly  rejected  her  gracious  offer  of  assist- 
ance : — 

"  0  Queen  !  to  other  Argives  lend  thine  aid  ; 
No  hostile  might  shall  break  where  Ajax  stands." — (D.) 

It  would  seem  as  if  his  sullen  and  haughty  temper 
had  estrangeil  the  friendship  of  men  as  well  as  the 
favour  of  the  gods.  He  was  certainly  unpopular 
among  his  brothers  in  arms.  To  Agamemnon  he  was 
"most  hateful;"  Menelaus  bore  him  no  love;  and 
the  Ulysses  of  Homer,  like  the  Ulysses  of  Shakspeare, 


100  SOPHOCLES. 

despised  this  "  beef-witted  lord  "*  for  "being  as  stolid  as 
he  was  arrogant.  On  the  death  of  Achilles,  it  was  de- 
cided that  the  celestial  armour  forged  by  Vulcan  for  the 
hero  at  the  prayer  of  Thetis  should  be  given  to  the 
bravest  warrior  in  the  host.  Only  two  chieftains  pre- 
sumed to  lay  claim  to  it  on  the  score  of  their  personal 
valour,  Ajax  and  Ulysses.  But  whatever  Ajax  might 
have  been  in  the  battle-field,  in  council  or  debate  he 
was  far  inferior  to  his  rival ;  and  the  other  princes, 
after  listening  to  the  claims  iirged  by  the  two  candi- 
dates, influenced  jjartly  by  personal  feeling,  partly  by 
the  eloquence  of  Ulysses  himself,  and  partly  by  the  in- 
spiration of  Minerva,  adjudged  the  armour  to  the  "king 
of  rocky  Ithaca." 

Ajax  left  the  council  and  retired  to  his  tent,  in 
bitter  wrath  at  what  he  considered  the  unjust  decision 
of  the  judges ;  and  it  is  on  the  following  morning  that 
the  play  opens. 

The  scene  represents  the  historic  plain  of  Troy. 
The  sea  sparkles  in  the  distance,  and  the  shore  is 
fringed  by  a  line  of  boats — one  larger  than  the  others 
in  the  centre  of  the  foreground.  There  is  only  one 
person  on  the  stage — a  chieftain  narrowly  scanning,  as 
it  seems,  footj^rints  on  the  ground.  Suddenly  there 
is  a  flash  of  light  high  up  in  the  background  of  the 
scene,  and  the  audience  see  a  majestic  form  in  radiant 

*  Troilus  and  Cressida,  act  i.  sc.  3.  M.  Taine  is  even  more 
uncomplimentary.  In  his  classification  of  Shakspeare's  char- 
acters, he  places  Ajax  between  Caliban  and  Cloten  among  "lea 
brutes  et  les  imbeciles."— (Lit.  AngL,  ii.  206.) 


THE  DEATH  OF  A  J  AX.  101 

armoiir ;  and  by  the  spear  in  her  hand,  the  Gorgon's 
head  upon  her  shield,  and,  above  all,  by  the  clear-cut 
face  and  by  the  "azure  eyes,"  they  recognise  their 
own  virgin  goddess,  Pallas  Athene,  or,  as  we  may  call 
her,  Minerva. 

Then,  in  that  musical  and  sonorous  Greek  of  which  we 
shall  never  know  the  true  sound  or  accent,  she  addresses 
the  warrior  on  the  stage.  Why  (she  asks) — why  does 
Ulysses  scan  these  freshly  -  imprinted  footsteps,  as 
though,  "  like  a  keen-scented  Spartan  hound,"  he  were 
tracking  his  foe  to  his  lairl  Ulysses  recognises  the 
voice,  "clear  as  a  Tyrrhenian  trumpet,"  and  makes 
answer.  He  is  on  the  track  of  his  foe,  the  hero  of  the 
seven-fcjld  shield.  In  the  night  just  past,  the  herds 
and  herdsmen  have  been  butchered  by  some  unknov.'n 
hand,  and  rumour  points  to  Ajax,  who  was  seen 

"  The  fields  o'erleaping  with  a  blood-stained  sword." 

Ulysses  has  come  to  spy  out  the  truth,  and  is  now 
ready  to  learn  it  from  one  whose  wisdom  he  has  proved 
of  old. 

Then  Minerva  tells  him  all, — how  Ajax,  burning 
with  Avrath  at  the  loss  of  these  much-coveted  arms, 
had  gone  forth  sword  in  hand  at  the  dead  of  night, 
and  was  on  the  point  of  bursting  into  the  tent  of  the 
.Atreidse,  thirsting  for  their  blood,  when  (says  the 
goddess) 

"  I  held  him  hack  from  that  accursed  joy, 
Casting  strange  glamour  o'er  his  wandering  eyes, 
And  turned  him  on  the  flocks,  and  where  with  them 
The  herd  of  captured  oxen  press  in  crowds, 


102  SOPHOCLES. 

Not  yet  divided.     And  on  these  he  falls, 

And  wrought  fell  slaughter  of  the  horned  kine, 

Smiting  all  round  ;  and  now  it  seemed  to  him 

That  he  did  slay  the  Atreidse  Avith  his  hand, 

Now  this,  now  that,  of  other  generals. 

And  I  still  urged  the  wild  and  moon-struck  man 

With  fresh  access  of  madness,  and  I  cast 

An  evil  net  around  him.     After  this, 

Wlien  he  liad  ceased  that  slaughter,  binding  fast 

The  oxen  that  still  lived,  and  all  the  flocks, 

He  leads  them  to  his  dwelling,  counting  them 

No  troop  of  horned  cattle,  but  of  men  ; 

And  now  within  he  flouts  his  prisoners." — (P.) 

Minerva  is  not  even  satisfied  with  having  Minded 
the  eyes  and  deluded  the  senses  of  the  rash  man  who 
had  insulted  her.  She  wishes  to  humiliate  her  victim 
before  her  favourite  hero,  and  loudly  summons  Ajax  to 
come  forth  from  the  tent.  At  the  second  summons  he 
appears,  his  eyes  still  glaring  with  a  ferocious  joy, 
carrying  the  scourge  of  cords  with  which  he  has  been 
lashing  his  prisoners.  jS^o  translation  can  express  the 
bitter  mockery  Avith  which  the  goddess  humours  his 
fancied  triumph,  "  first  gazing  on  her  victim,  while  the 
depths  of  his  mental  ruin  are  lighted  up  by  her  irony, 
then  turning  in  more  benignant  majesty  to  point  the 
moral  for  her  favourite."  * 

Ajax   warmly   tlianks   Minerva   for  her  aid.      Hi? 
revenge  has  been  glorious.     IS^ot  only  has  he  reddenec 
his  sword  with  the  blood  of  the  Atreidse,  but  he  ha 
Ulysses,  his  bitterest  foe  (it  is  a  ram  which  to  his  mai 
fancy  represents  liim),  bound  to  a  pillar  within,  ani 

*  Jebb's  Aja.x,  p.  8,  note. 


THE  DEATH  OF  AJAX.  103 

he  intends  presently  to  scourge  liim  to  death.  Tlien 
he  re-enters  the  tent  to  complete  his  vengeance. 

The  real  Ulysses,  whom  Minerva  has  hidden  in  a 
cloud  from  his  rival's  sight,  cannot  resist  expressiiig 
his  pity  that  so  stout  a  warrior  should  have  beou 
brought  so  low ;  but  the  goddess  has  no  such  comi)as- 
sion.  It  is  his  impious  pride  that  has  brought  these 
evils  on  the  victim  of  her  wrath.  Let  his  fate  be  a 
warning  to  all,  and  let  Ulysses  himself  take  heed  : — 

"  Do  thou,  then,  seeing  this,  refrain  thy  tongue 
From  any  lofty  speech  against  the  gods. 
Nor  boast  thyself,  though  thou  excel  in  strength 
Or  weight  of  stored-up  wealth.     All  human  things 
A  day  lays  low,  a  day  lifts  up  again  ; 
But  still  the  gods  love  those  of  ordered  soul, 
And  hate  the  evih"— (P.) 

And  with  these  parting  words  the  goddess  is  borne 
upwards  by  some  ingenious  mechanism,  and  Ulysses 
departs,  having  learnt  tlie  object  of  his  quest,  and 
marvelling  much  at  the  strange  frenzy  which  had 
come  upon  his  unsuccessful  rival. 

Music  in  the  "Dorian  mode"  is  heard,  and  the 
Chorus,  here  composed  of  Salaniinian  sailors,  the  faith- 
ful comrades  of  Ajax,  enter  in  search  of  their  chieftain. 
They  have  been  much  perplexed  and  disquieted  by  an 
evil  rumour,  tending  to  the  dishonour  of  their  much- 
loved  prince. 

"  Tis  said  that,  rusliing  to  the  plain, 
By  thee  the  captured  herds  were  slain 
To  Grecian  valour  due  ; 


104  SOPHOCLES. 

All  that  of  martial  spoils  remain 

Thy  hand  infuriate  slew. 
Such  slanders  does  Ulysses  bear, 
Such  whispers  breathe  in  every  ear : 

His  calumnies  glad  credence  gain  ; 
As  he  who  speaks,  so  they  who  hear, 

Insulting  mock  thy  pain. 
He  rarely  errs  who  flings  on  high 
At  gallant  souls  his  contumely; 
Whilst  I  of  lowlier  lot  evade 
The  penalty  by  greatness  paid  ; 
For  envy  steals  with  silent  aim 
On  nobler  birth  and  loftier  fame." — (D.) 

Let  their  chief  "but  come  forth  from  his  tent,  and  he 
will  confound  his  enemies  by  his  presence ;  at  sight  of 
him  they  will  scatter  "  like  a  flock  of  birds." 

Then  the  Chorus  pause,  waiting  for  an  answer; 
but  no  word  of  response  comes  from  the  closed  cur- 
tains of  the  tent  of  Ajax.  They  are  alarmed  by  this 
strange  silence.  Can  there  be,  after  all,  they  ask, 
some  truth  in  this  dark  rumour  ?  Can  Diana  or  the 
god  of  war  have  sent  this  curse  of  madness  on  their 
prince?  Heaven  help  him,  if  this  be  so!  But  if 
Ulysses  has  invented  the  story, — "  Up  from  thy  seat," 
is  their  last  appeal,  "  where  all  too  long  thou  hast 
been  tarrying,  wliile  the  insolence  of  thy  foes  sweeps  on 
like  a  breeze  through  wind-swept  dells,  mocking  thee 
to  thy  heart's  grief  and  \o  my  abiding  sorrow." 

There  is  still  no  answer  from  Ajax,  but  a  woman 
comes  forth  from  his  tent,  weeping  bitterly.  The 
sailors  know  her  well.    It  is  Tecmessa,  a  captive  of  the 


TEE  DEATH  OF  A  J  AX.  105 

spear,  Avhom  Ajax,  according  to  the  existing  rules  of 
war,  "  deigned  to  take  for  his  bride."  She  has  to  tell 
them  of  '•  a  sorrow  sharp  as  death."  The  rumour  is 
all  too  true,  for  Ajax,  the  valiant,  the  mighty,  the  broad- 
shouldered  hero  (and  she  dwells  fondly  on  each  epithet), 
is  the  victim  of  a  heaven-sent  frenzy ;  and  then  sl\e 
tells  them  all  she  knows  of  the  wild  work  of  the  pre- 
vious night.  "When  the  evening  lamps  burnt  no 
longer,  and  all  was  darkness  and  silence  through  tlie 
camp,  Ajax  had  taken  his  sword  and  gone  forth  alone, 
cutting  short  her  remonstrances  with  a  proverb  (familiar 
to  the  Greeks,  but  which  would  find  little  favour  in 
our  days), — 

"Silence,  0  woman,  is  a  woman's  grace."— (D.) 

After  a  space  he  had  returned,  driving  before  him  the 
sheep  and  oxen.  Some  of  these  he  had  slain,  hacking 
and  mangling  them  with  insensate  fury ;  others  he  had 
bound  and  lashed  with  the  scourge,  laughing  madly 
the  while,  and  threatening  his  fancied  enemies.  Then 
at  last  reason  and  remorse  came  upon  him  ;- 

"  And  when  he  saw  the  tent  with  slaughter  filled. 
He  smote  his  head  and  groaned ;  and,  falling  down. 
He  sat  among  tlie  fallen  carcasses 
Of  that  great  slaughter  of  the  flocks  and  herds, 
Tearing  his  hair  by  handfuls  with  his  nails. 
And  for  a  long,  long  time  be  Speechless  sat ; 
And  then  with  those  dread  words  he  threatened  me, 
Uidess  I  told  him  all  the  woeful  chance, 
And  asked  me  of  the  plii^ht  in  which  he  stood  ; 
And  I,  my  friends,  in  terror  told  him  all. 
All  that  I  knew  of  all  that  he  had  done. 


106  SOPHOCLES. 

And  he  forthwith  sent  out  a  bitter  cry, 

Such  as  till  now  I  never  heard  from  him  ; 

For  ever  did  he  hold  such  loud  lament 

Sure  sign  of  one  with  coward  heart  and  base  ; 

And  liolding  back  from  shrill  and  wailing  cries, 

Would  groan  with  deep,  low  muttering,  like  a  bull ; 

But  now,  thus  fallen  on  an  evil  chance. 

Tasting  nor  food  nor  drink,  among  the  herds 

Slain  with  his  sword,  he  sits  in  silent  calm. 

And  looks  like  one  on  some  dire  mischief  bent." — (P.) 

This  burst  of  anguish  followed  by  a  sullen  despair  is, 
as  Tecmessa  fears,  more  dangerous  than  his  first  fran- 
tic state  of  madness.  What  help  can  they,  his  old 
and  true  friends,  bring  to  their  king  in  this  extremity  1 

But  the  Chorus  have  not  time  to  answer  her ;  for 
groan  after  groan  comes  from  the  closed  tent,  and.  Ajax 
is  heard  piteously  calling  on  his  child  Eurysaces,  and 
on  Teucer  his  foster-brother,  then  far  away,  to  come  to 
him.  Then  Tecmessa  can  refrain  no  longer,  but  throws 
open  the  door  of  the  tent,  and  discovers  Ajax  seated 
in  gloomy  silence,  with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands, 
while  all  about  him  lie  the  carcasses  of  the  slaughtered 
sheep  and  oxen.  Disturbed  by  the  light  entering  the 
tent,  he  lifts  up  his  head  and  sees  his  faithful  sailors ; 
but  they  can  bring  him  no  comfort.  His  baffled  ven- 
geance, the  insulting  joy  of  his  foes, — more  than  all, 
of  that  wheedling  knave  Ulysses,  whom  he  pictures  to 
biniself  a^  "  laughing  long  and  loudly  for  very  joy  of 
heart," — all  these  thoughts  rankle  in  his  breast,  and 
render  life  itself  unbearable.  How,  he  asks,  can  he 
endure  the  light  of  day  1  how  can  he  look  on  the  face 
of  men  any  longer]     I.ct  his  own  true  friends,  the 


TUE  DEATH   OF  A  J  AX.  107 

sailors  of  his  fleet,  come  near  and  slay  him  with  the 
sword.  The  sight  of  the  mangled  carcasses  around 
him  aggravates  this  sense  of  shame  ;  to  think  that  he, 
the  hero  of  a  hundred  fights,  should  have  dyed  his 
sword  in  the  hlood  of  dumb  and  defenceless  beasts  ! 
There  is  only  one  escape  open  to  him  now ; — 

"  Fair  death  it  is,  to  shun  more  shame,  to  die."  * 

And  he  welcomes  the  thought.  "  0  darkness,"  he  con- 
tinues, "  my  light  !  0  gloom  of  Erebus,  bright  as  day 
to  such  as  me  !  Take  me,  take  me  to  dwell  with  you ; 
for  I  am  no  longer  worthy  to  look  on  the  race  of  gods 
or  mortals  for  any  proiit  that  I  can  bring  to  man,  since 
the  Avarrior-daughter  of  Jove  torments  me  to  my  death. 
AVhither,  then,  can  I  fly  ?  whither  can  I  go  and  be  at 
restl  for  my  glory  is  gone,  my  friends,  and  vengeance 
presses  hard  upon  me." 

Then  he  turns  (as  every  hero  in  Sophocles  turns)  to 
Nature — to  the  familiar  plains  of  Troy — and  bids  them 
all  an  aflectionate  farewell. 

"  0  paths  by  the  ocean  waves,  and  caverns  on  the 
shore,  and  grove  o'ershadowing  the  beach,  too  long, 
too  long  have  ye  held  me  here  a  weary  while !  but 
no  longer  shall  ye  hold  me.  while  I  have  breath  of 
life.  Let  him  who  is  wise  know  this.  0  streams  of 
Scamander,  old  friends  of  mine,  never  shall  ye  see  me 
more ;  the  bravest  warrior  of  all  the  host  that  came 
from  Greece  ! " 

And  then  there  croAvd  upon  him  the  sweet  and 
bitter  memories  of  the  past, — tlie  promises  of  glory  so 

•  Faery  Queen,  111.  v.  45. 


108  SOPUOCLES. 

soon  cut  short, — the  hopes  of  vengeance  so  ruinously 
frustrated.  How  can  he  return  to  Salamis,  and  meet 
the  questioning  looks  of  his  father  Telamon,  deprived 
of  tlie  meeds  of  valour  ]  He  is  hated  by  the  gods  ; 
he  is  liated  by  the  Greek  host ;  "  yea,"  he  says,  "  all 
Troy  and  these  plains  hate  me." 

*•  I  must  seek  out  some  perilous  emprise, 
To  show  my  father  that  I  sprang  from  him, 
In  nature  not  faint-hearted.     It  is  shame 
For  any  man  to  wish  for  length  of  life, 
Who,  wrapped  in  troubles,  knows  no  change  for  good. 
For  what  delight  brings  day  still  following  day. 
Or  bringing  on,  or  putting  off  our  death  ? 
T  would  not  rate  that  mau  as  worth  regard. 
Whose  fervour  glows  on  vain  and  empty  hopes : 
But  either  noble  life  or  noble  death 
Becomes  the  gentle  born.     My  say  is  said." — (P.) 

Then  Tecmessa  implores  him,  in  the  name  of  all 
that  he  regards  as  dearest  and  most  sacred  upon  earth, 
not  to  leave  her  and  his  child  desolate,  to  eat  the 
bread  of  slavery  and  bear  the  bitter  insults  of  hia 
enemies. 

"  For  very  shame, 
Leave  not  thy  father  in  his  sad  old  age  ; 
For  shame,  leave  not  thy  mother,  feeble  grown 
With  many  years,  who  ofttimes  prays  the  gods 
That  thou  may'st  live,  and  to  thy  house  return. 
Pity,  O  king,  thy  boy,  and  think  if  he. 
Deprived  of  childhood's  nurture,  live  bereaved 
Beneath  unfriendly  gnnrdians,  what  sore  grief 
Thou  in  thy  death  dost  give  to  him  and  me  ; 
For  I  have  nothing  now  on  earth  save  thee 
To  which  to  look."— (P.) 


THE  DEATH  OF  A  J  AX.  109 

The  Chorus — themselves  moved  to  tears — implore 
Ajax  to  listen  to  this  touching  appeal,  and  to  forego 
his  deadly  purpose.  But  Ajax,  if  he  is  touched  at 
all,  is  too  proud  to  show  it.  If  Tecmessa  loves  him, 
let  her  hring  his  cliild  Eurysaces, — and  Eurysaces  is 
brought.  Then  Ajax,  taking  the  child  upon  his  knee, 
looks  tenderly  on  him,  as  Hector  looked  on  Astyanax, 
— so  happily  unconscious  of  his  fatjior's  misery,  and 
scarcely  heeding  the  carnage  with  which  the  ground 
was'strewed  ;  and  then  addressing  the  child  as  though 
it  could  understand  his  words,  he  j^ictures  it  growing 
up  in  careless  innocence,  "  as  a  young  plant,"  sheltered 
from  all  rough  winds  under  the  guardianship  of  Teucer, 
rejoicing  its  widowed  mother's  heart,  and  perhaps 
hereafter  (and  the  warrior's  heart  swells  at  the  thought) 
avenging  his  father's  wrongs.  "  0  my  child,"  he  says, 
almost  in  tlie  words  of  ^neas  to  the  young  Ascanius, — 

**  Learn  of  your  father  to  be  great, 
Of  others  to  he  fortunate."  * 

Eurysaces,  he  concludes,  shall  inherit  the  famous 
shield — from  which  he  takes  his  name  :  all  his  other 
arms  shall  be  buried  in  his  own  grave.  Then,  with  a 
hint  that  "  sore  wounds  need  sharp  remedies,"  he  bids 
her  take  the  child  within  and  fasten  the  tent-doors. 
Again  Tecmessa  imi^lorcs  him  to  relent  — "  in  the 
name  of  the  gods,"  "  The  gods  ! "  bitterly  repeats 
Ajax — what  duty  or  allegiance  does  he  owe  the  gods, 
who  so  plainly  hate  him  1  and  once  more  he  angrDy 
orders  her  to  leave  hini  to  himself. 

*  Virgil,  -iEneid,  xii.  435  (Conington's  Tranal.) 


110  SOPHOCLES. 

But  Tecmessa  still  lingers — ^finding  it,  perhaps,  im- 
possible to  tear  herself  from  the  presence  of  one  whom 
she  loves  with  all  a  Avonian's  devoted  affection — and 
she  stays  near  the  tent-door,  clasping  the  hands  of 
Eurysaces.*  Ajax  does  not  look  to  see  whether  she  has 
obeyed  him ;  bat,  relapsing  into  profound  melancholy, 
covers  his  face  in  his  hands.  And  so  the  three  remain, 
motionless  as  statues ;  while  the  Chorus,  in  their  song, 
contrast  the  peaceful  happiness  of  the  island-home  which 
they  have  left  Avith  the  weary  travail  of  the  siege,  -and 
the  gloom  and  dishonour  of  their  king.  "  Blessed  art 
thou,"  their  chant  begins,  "glorious  Salamis,  where 
thou  liest  by  the  beating  waves,  famous  in  the  sight  of 
all  for  ever ; " — and  they  deplore  the  fate  which  has 
befallen  so  noble  a  waiTior — doomed  to  perish  in  his 
prime,  though  sprung  from  a  race  in  which  "  prince 
after  prince  had  lived  out  his  span,  and  gone  to  the 
grave  full  of  years  and  honours."  t 

"  Oh  !  when  the  pride  of  Gra^cia's  noblest  race 
Wanders,  as  now,  in  darkness  and  disgrace, 

When  reason's  day 
Sets  rayless — joyless — quenched  in  cold  decay, 

Better  to  die,  and  sleep 
The  never-waking  sleep,  than  linger  on, 
And  dare  to  live,  when  the  soul's  life  is  gone : 

But  thou  shalt  weep. 
Thou  -wretched  father,  for  thy  dearest  son, 
Thy  best  beloved,  by  inward  furies  torn. 
The  deepest,  bitterest  curse,  thine  ancient  house  hath 
borne ! "  t 

•  Bishop  Tliirlwall's  view  of  tHe  scene  is  here  followed. 
+  Jebb's  Ajax,  p.  88.  +  Praed's  Poems,  11.  349. 


THE   DEATH  OF  A  J  AX.  \\\ 

Then  Ajax  conies  forward  again.  His  better  nature 
has  been  touched — perhaps  more  by  the  allusions  to 
his  beloved  island  than  by  any  awakened  tenderness 
for  Tecmessa.  He  addresses  the  Chorus,  and  there  is 
no  necessity  for  supposing  his  sj)eech  to  be  spoken 
with  studied  artifice  :  if  there  is  artifice,  it  is  the  poet's 
"  irony."  Or  it  may  be  that  he  "  desires,  half  in  pity 
and  haK  in  scorn,  to  disguise  from  his  listeners  a  pur- 
pose too  great  for  their  sympathy."*  But  whatever 
may  have  been  the  intention  of  the  words,  their  pur- 
port is  that  his  heart  has  been  melted  within  him :  he 
will  atone  for  his  rash  deeds :  he  will  purify  himself 
from  the  stain  of  blood,  that  so  he  may  find  rest  for 
his  soul. 

This  famous  farewell  speech  is  worthy  of  being 
given  in  full,  aiid  the  following  is  Mr  Calverley's 
admirable  translation : — 

"  All  strangest  things  the  multitudinous  years 
Bring  forth,  and  shadow  from  us  all  we  know. 
Falter  alike  great  oath  and  steeled  resolve  ; 
And  none  shall  say  of  aught,  '  This  may  not  be.' 
Lo  !  I  myself,  but  yesterday  so  strong 
As  new-dipt  steel,  am  weak  and  all  unsexed 
Bv  yonder  woman  .  vea  I  mourn  for  them. 
Widow  and  orphan,  left  amid  their  foes. 
But  I  will  journey  seaward — where  the  shore 
Lies  meadow-fringed — so  haply  wash  aAvay 
My  sin,  and  flee  that  wrath  that  weighs  me  down, 
And,  lighting  somewhere  on  an  untrodden  way, 
I  will  bury  this  my  sword,  this  hateful  thing, 
Deep  in  some  oaith-hole  where  no  eye  shall  see — 
Night  and  hell  keep  it  in  the  under-world  ! 

*  Jebb's  Ajax. 


112  SOPHOCLES. 

For  never  to  this  day,  since  first  I  grasped 
The  gift  that  Hector  gave,  my  bitterest  foe, 
Have  I  reaped  aught  of  honour  from  the  Greeks. 
So  true  that  byword  iu  the  mouths  of  men, 
'A  foeman's  gifts  are  no  gifts,  but  a  curse.' 

Wherefore  lienceforward  shall  I  know  that  God 
Is  great ;  and  strive  to  honour  Atreus'  sons. 
Princes  they  are,  and  should  be  obeyed.     How  else  ? 
Do  not  all  terrible  and  most  puissant  things 
Yet  bow  to  loftier  majesties  ?     The  Winter, 
Who  walks  forth  scattering  snows,  gives  place  anon 
To  fruitage-laden  Summer  ;  and  the  orb 
Of  weary  Night  doth  in  her  turn  stand  by. 
And  let  shine  out,  with  her  white  steeds,  the  Day : 
Stem  tempest-blasts  at  last  sing  lullaby 
To  groaning  seas  :  even  the  arch-tyrant,  Sleep, 
Doth  loose  his  slaves,  not  hold  them  chained  for  ever. 

And  shall  not  mankind,  too,  learn  discipline  l 
I  know,  of  late  experience  taught,  that  him 
Who  is  my  foe  I  must  but  hate  as  one 
Whom  I  may  yet  call  friend  :  and  him  who  loves  me 
Will  I  but  serve  and  cherish  as  a  man 
Whose  love  is  not  abiding.     Few  be  they 
Who  reaching  friendship's  port  have  there  found  rest. 

But,  for  these  things  they  shall  be  well.     Go  thou, 
Lady,  within,  and  there  pray  that  the  gods 
May  fill  unto  the  full  my  heart's  desire; 
And  ye,  my  mates,  do  unto  me  with  her 
Like  honolir  ;  bid  young  Teucer,  if  he  comes, 
To  care  for  me,  but  to  be  your  friend  still. 
For  where  my  way  leads,  thither  must  I  go  ; 
Do  ye  my  bidding  ;  haply  ye  may  hear. 
Though  now  is  my  dark  hour,  that  I  have  peace."  * 

The  Chorus  are  convinced  that  Ajax  has  shaken  off 
the  sullen  despair  which  had  brooded  over  his  spirit, 
*  Verses  and  Translations,  p.  177. 


THE  DEATH  OF  A  J  AX.  113 

and  give  vent  to  their  delight  in  a  passionate  hurst 
of  joy,  which  nmst  have  heen  far  more  effective  in 
the  original  music  of  the  ode  than  it  can  ever  be  in 
an  English  translation,  however  gracefully  rendered. 
Once  more  they  may  see  the  "  white  glory  of  happy 
days ; "  and  they  call  on  Pan  himself  to  lead  their 
dance  of  triumph. 

"  I  thrill  with  eager  delight, 
And  with  passionate  joy  I  loap  ; 
lo  Pan !  Id  Pan !  lo  Pan ! 
Come  over  the  waves  from  the  height 
Of  the  cliffs  of  Cyllene,  where  sweep 
The  storm-blasts  of  snow  in  their  might ! 

Come,  come,  O  King,  at  the  head 
Of  the  dance  of  the  Gods  as  they  tread. 

•  •••«• 

And  over  Icarian  wave, 

Coming  with  will  to  save, 
May  Delos'  king,  Apollo,  gloriously  advance  t 

Yes,  the  dark  sorrow  and  pain 

Far  from  me  Ares  liath  set ; 

lo  Pan  !  lo  Pan  !  once  more  ; 

And  now,  0  Zeus  !  yet  again 
May  our  swift-sailing  vessels  be  met 
By  the  dawn  with  clear  light  in  its  train." — (P.) 

But  hardly  have  these  joyous  strains  died  away, 
when  a  messenger  from  the  Greek  camp  enters,  in- 
quiring for  Ajax.  Teiicer  has  just  returned  from  the 
foray,  and  lias  with  difficulty  made  his  way  through 
the  crowd  of  soldiers,  who  assailed  him  with  a  storm 
of  insults  and  threats  as  "  the  madman's  brother." 
On  his  entering  the  council  chamber,   Calchas,  the 

A.  c.  vol.  X.  H 


114  SOPHOCLES. 

seer,  had  drawn  him  aside,  and  earnestly  warned  him 
to  keep  Ajax  Avitliin  doors  till  ^sunset.  The  wrath 
of  jSIinerva  would  last  for  the  space  of  this  one  day, 
Avhich  was  destined  to  bring  him  death  or  life.  But 
the  warning  and  the  message  have  come  too  late. 
Ajax  has  already  gone  forth,  and  the  Chorus — realising 
the  irony  of  his  farewell  speech  to  them — hurriedly 
summon  Tecmessa,  and  disperse  themselves  to  seek 
their  prince,  and  stay  his  hand  while  there  may  yet 
be  time. 

For  a  moment  the  stage  is  vacant ;  then,  by  a 
skilful  appliance  of  machinery,  the  scene  changes. 
The  sea  still  heaves  in  the  distance ;  but,  instead 
of  the  tents  of  the  Salaminian  sailors,  there  is  seen 
the  dark  and  lonely  "  grove  by  the  shore,"  and  near 
it  stands  Ajax  himself,  looking  steadfastly  at  his 
sword,  which  is  fixed  point  upwards  with  the  hilt 
bui-ied  in  the  earth.  All  things,  he  says,  are  ready 
for  the  sacrifice.  The  sword  that  is  to  slay  him — 
Hector's  fatal  gift,  but  his  best  friend  now — ^is  ready 
sharpened,  and  fixed  where  it  may  strike  the  surest 
blow.  Then  he  invokes  the  gods,  with  whom  he 
makes  his  peace  by  his  blood.  Let  Zeus  summon 
Teucer  by  a  "  swift  rumour,"  that  he  may  protect  his 
body  from  the  insults  of  his  enemies ;  let  Mercury 
guide  his  soul  to  a  home  of  rest,  after  it  has  parted 
from  his  body  "  at  one  swift  bound  —  without  a 
struggle ; "  let  the  Furies  avenge  his  wrongs,  and 
"  spare  not  the  Greek  host,  but  lap  their  fill  of  slaugh- 
ter." Then  a  softer  spirit  comes  over  him,  and  he  bids 
farewell  to  life — not  with  the' bitter  and  half-affected 


TUE  DEATH  OF  AJAX.  115 

disdain  of  Eonaeo  and  Hamlet,  but  afTectionately 
appealing  to  ttie  bright  daylight,  and  to  Nature,  with 
all  their  pleasant  memories  of  the  past : — 

"  And  thou  that  niak'st  high  heaven  tliy  chariot-course, 

0  Sun,  when  gazing  on  my  Fatherland, 
Draw  back  thy  golden  rein,  and  tell  my  woes 
To  the  old  man  my  father,  and  to  her 

Who  nursed  me  at  her  bosom — my  poor  mother  ! 
There  will  be  wailing  through  the  echoing  walls 
When — but  away  with  thoughts  like  these  !  the  hoxir 
Brings  on  the  ripening  deed.     Death,  death  !  look  on  me— 
Did  I  say  Deatli  ? — it  was  a  waste  of  words  ; 
We  shall  be  friends  hereafter. 

'Tis  the  DAY, 
Present  and  breathing  round  me,  and  the  car 
Of  the  sweet  sun,  that  never  shall  again 
Receive  my  greeting  ! — henceforth  time  is  sunless, 
And  day  a  thing  that  is  not !     Beautiful  Light, 
My  Salamis — my  country — and  the  floor 
Of  my  dear  household-hearth ;  and  thou,  briglit  Athens, 
Thou — for  thy  sons  and  I  were  boys  together-— 
Fountains  and  rivers,  and  ye  Trojan  plains, 

1  loved  you  as  my  fosterers — fare  ye  well ! 

Take  in  these  words,  the  last  earth  hears  from  Ajax — 

All  else  unspoken  ;  in  a  spectre-land 

I'll  whisper  to  the  Dead." — (Lord  Lytton.) 

And  we  must  remember,  says  a  French  critic,  that 
this  appeal  was  made  in  a  theatre  with  the  blue 
heaven  for  its  canopy,  and  the  mountains  and  sea  for 
its  decorations.  When  he  saluted  for  the  last  time 
the  sun  and  the  sweet  light  of  day,  the  real  sun  was 
actually  shedding  a  radiance  on  the  features  of  the 
dying  hero,  and  the  entranced  faces  of  the  audience. 


116  SOPHOCLES. 

"  Salamis,  sacred  land  of  my  fathers  !'*  cried  Ajax,  and 
all  the  spectators  could  see  Salamis  and  its  glorious 
gulf.  There  it  lay,  sparkling  in  the  sunshine,  in 
the  midst  of  the  waves,  which  still  murmur  the  name 
of  Themistocles ;  there  it  lay,  with  all  the  memories 
which  its  name  and  sight  could  recall  to  the  Athenians. 
"  Fair  and  glorious  Athens,  sweet  sister  of  my  father- 
land !  "  again  cried  the  hero ;  and  not  only  did  he  say 
this  in  Athens,  but  Athens  was  all  there  centred 
beneath  liis  gaze.* 

With  one  last  look  at  the  sunlight,  Ajax  falls  for- 
wards on  his  sword,  and  his  body  lies  concealed  from 
the  audience  by  the  underwood  of  the  grove.  The 
Chorus  enter  hui'riedly  in  two  bands,  right  and  left  of 
the  stage.  They  have  wearied  themselves  "with  a  vain 
search,  far  and  wide,  on  the  eastern  and  western  sides 
of  the  camp,  but  they  have  not  found  their  prince ; 
and  they  appeal  to  the  "  children  of  the  sea  " — the 
nymphs  and  naiads  of  the  springs — to  aid  their  quest. 
Suddenly  a  woman's  cry  is  heard  from  the  grove.  It 
is  Tecmessa,  who,  searching  nearer  home,  has  just 
stumbled  on  the  body  of  Ajax,  as  it  lies  "  with  the  life- 
blood  streaming  from  the  nostrils  ; "  and  they  see  her 
covering  it  with  her  robe  from  the  eyes  of  his  friends. 

Teucer  enters  in  the  midst  of  their  grief,  warned  by 
a  mysterious  rumour  from  some  god  of  the  death  of 
Ajax.  He  uncovers  the  body;  and,  gazing  steadfastly 
at  it,  he  too  bursts  into  a  passionate  lament.  As  the 
sons  of  Jacob  feared  to  return  to  their  father  "\^dthout 

*  Translated  from  Girardin,  Cours  de  Litterature  Dramat., 
L  29. 


THE  DEATH  OF  A  J  AX.  117 

bringing  Benjamin  with  tliem,  so  the  foster-brother 
shrinks  from  returning  alone  to  Salamis  and  facing  the 
aged  Telamon — fierce  even  in  his  gentlest  mood;  and  he 
foresees,  what  actually  happened,  that  he  will  be  driven, 
like  a  slave  and  an  outcast,  from  his  doors.  And  then  he 
moralises  over  the  fatality  of  an  enemy's  gifts,  Avhich 
have  brought  death  and  dole  to  giver  and  receiver. 

"  Mark,  by  the  gods,  these  hapless  heroes'  fate. 
Bound  by  the  very  belt  which  Ajax  gave 
To  the  swift  chariot,  Hector  breatlied  his  last : 
He  too,  possessing  Hector's  fatal  gift. 
By  it  hath  perished  with  a  mortal  wound. 
Did  not  some  Fury  forge  that  sword,  and  Death — 
A  stern  artificer — that  baldric  weave  ? 
Such  fates,  I  ween,  the  gods  for  man  ordain  ; 
Yea,  and  all  strange  vicissitudes  of  life." — (D.) 

Here  it  seems  as  if  the  play  should  end ;  but  it  is 
carried  on  into  another  act.  To  an  Athenian  audi- 
ence, Ajax  was  more  than  a  hero  of  tragedy  :  he  was 
almost  a  tutelary  god,  the  deified  ancestor  of  one  of 
their  noblest  families,  to  which  not  only  Miltiades,  but 
Alcibiades,  and  Thucydides  the  historian — perhaps  ac- 
tual spectators  of  the  play — all  belonged.  Divine  hon- 
ours were  paid  to  his  tomb  ;  and  a  yearly  festival  was 
held  in  his  memory  at  Salamis..  His  burial,  therefore, 
even  on  the  stage,  had  almost  the  sanctity  of  a  religious 
rite;  and  Menelaus  and  his  brother  (as  types  of  Argos 
and  Sparta,  the  national  enemies  of  Athens)  appropri- 
ately "  fdl  the  posts  of  '  Devil's  Advocates  '  at  this 
process  of  canonisation."* 

*  Bishop  ThirhvalL 


118  SOPHOCLES. 

Just  as  Teucer  is  about  to  remove  the  "body  in  order 
to  prepare  it  for  Lurial,  Menelaus,  accompanied  by  a 
herald,  appears,  and  haughtily  bids  him  leave  the 
corpse  as  it  lies  upon  the  sand.  "There,"  he  says,  "it 
shall  remain,  food  for  the  bu'ds  that  haunt  the  shore  ; 
for  in  his  lifetime  Ajax  had  been  a  vrorse  foe  to  the 
Greeks  than  all  the  Trojans."  Then  follows  an  angry 
dialogue,  in  which  the  speakers,  with  Homeric  rough- 
ness, exchange  all  degrees  of  insult,  from'  the  "  reply 
churlish "  to  the  "  lie  direct."  Teucer  is  a  fearless 
champion  of  the  dead,  and  cares  nothing  for  the  rank 
of  his  opponent  or  for  the  consequences  to  himself. 
"  Come,  therefore,"  he  replies,  in  a  spirit  as  haughty 
as  the  Spartan's, — 

"  Come,  therefore,  bring  with  thee  a  host  of  heralds  ; 
Yea,  bring  the  King  of  men  himself.     I  care  not 
For  all  thy  stir,  wliile  thou  art — what  thou  art." 

Menelaus,  accordingly,  goes  to  summon  his  brother 
Agamemnon  ;  and  Teucer  calls  Tecmessa  and  Eury- 
saces  to  watch  the  body  while  he  prepares  the  grave. 
Then  he  bids  the  young  child  sit  as  a  suppliant,  with 
one  hand  on  the  corpse,  and  holding  in  the  other  a  lock 
of  his  father's  hair. 

"  And  should  one 
In  all  our  army  tear  thee  from  the  dead, 
IVIay  he  thus  bare,  unbu^ried,  basely  die, 
An  exile  from  his  home,  with  all  his  race 
As  utterly  cut  off,  as  I  now  cut 
This  braided  lock."— (P.) 

The  Chorus  deplore  the  weary  length  of  the  siege,  and 
curse  the  memory  of  him  who  first  taught  war  to  the 


THE  DEATH  OF  A  J  AX.  119 

Greeks,  and  thereby  cut  them  off  from  all  the  joys  of 
life — "garlands,  and  brimming  wine-cups,  and  the 
flute's  sweet  music,  and  sleep,  and  love." 

"  Yes,  he  from  love  and  all  its  joy- 
Has  cut  me  off,  ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 

And  here  I  linger  still  in  Troy, 
By  all  uncared  for,  sad  to  see. 

Till  now,  from  every  fear  by  night. 
And  bulwaik  against  darts  of  foe, 

Ajax  stood  forward  in  his  might. 
But  now  the  stern  god  lays  him  low. 

Ah  !  would  that  I  my  flight  could  take 
Where  o'er  the  sea  the  dark  crags  frown. 

And  on  the  rocks  the  wild  waves  break, 
And  woods  the  height  of  Simium  crown. 

That  so  we  might  with  welcome  bless 


'o 


Great  Athens  and  her  holiness  ! " — (P.) 

Teuccr  enters  again,  and  at  the  same  moment  there 
is  seen  approaching  from  the  Greek  camp  a  tall  chief- 
tain of  stately  bearing,  in  resplendent  armour.  It  is 
"  the  King  of  men,  the  commander  of  the  host,"  Aga- 
memnon himself.  He  addresses  Teucer  with  studied 
insolence,  affecting  not  even  to  understand  his  "bar- 
barous tongue."  "  Does  the  son  of  the  bondmaid,"*  he 
asks,  "presume  to  set  himself  up  as  champion  of  a 
hero  no  whit  better  than  his  fellow-captains?  Let 
him  bring  a  free-born  Greek  to  plead  his  cause." 
Teucer  replies  half  in  anger,  half  in  sorroAv,  that  the 
valour  and  the  good  services  of  Ajax  should  so  soon 
have  faded  from  men's  remembrance.    He  apostrophises 

*  Teucer  was  the  son  of  Telamon  by  a  captive  princess. 


120  SOPHOCLES. 

the  dead  before  lie  will  even  condescend  to  notice  the 
taunt  of  the  living. 

"Alas  I  how  swiftly  doth  man's  gratitude 
Turn  traitor  to  the  memory  of  the  dead  ! 
Lo,  hath  this  prince  not  even  one  little  word 
Of  thought  for  thee,  0  Ajax,  who  didst  oft 
In  his  behaK  aforetime  gage  thy  life  ? "  * 

Then  he  turns  indignantly  to  the  great  king — "What, 
does  he  not  remember  ?  It  was  Ajax  who  had  saved 
the  ships  from  destruction,  when  Avrapped  in  flames.  It 
was  Ajax  who  had  confronted  Hector  himself — and  the 
'  son  of  the  bondmaid '  had  then  stood  by  his  brother's 
side."  Then  he  retorts  the  charge  of  mean  descent  on 
Agamemnon — sprung  from  the  "  godless  Atreus,"  and 
from  a  mother  who  played  her  husband  false.  He  will 
die  himself  sooner  than  desert  the  dead — and  it  would 
be  more  glorious,  he  adds,  to  die  for  his  gallant  foster- 
brother  than  for  Helen,  the  faithless  wife. 

At  this  point  Ulysses  enters,  a:id  acts  as  peacemater 
between  the  angry  disj)utants.  His  shrewd  sense  had 
argued  that  nothing  could  be  gained  by  outraging  the 
body  of  the  dead  warrior;  and  he  appeals  to  Agamemnon 
not  to  press  his  hatred  beyond  the  grave — basing  his 
appeal  upon  common  humanity  and  reason — 

"  Unto  me 
Tills  man  of  all  the  host  was  greatest  foe. 
Since  I  prevailed  to  gain  Achilles'  arms  ; 


• 


"  But  yefsterday  tlie  name  of  Csesar  might 
Have  stood  against  the  world  :  now  lies  he  there. 
And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence." 

— Julius  Csesar,  act  ill.  so.  2. 


THE  DEATH  OF  A  J  AX.  121 

But  though  he  were  so,  being  what  he  was, 
I  would  not  put  so  foul  a  shame  on  him, 
As  not  to  own  I  looked  upon  a  man 
The  best  and  bravest  of  the  Argive  host, 
Of  all  that  came  to  Troia,  saving  one, 
Achilles'  self.     Most  wrong  'twould  therefore  be 
Tliat  he  should  suffer  outrage  at  thy  hands  ; 
Thou  wouldst  not  tramjjle  upon  him  alone, 
But  on  the  laws  of  God."— (P.) 

Agamemnon  reluctantly  gives  way,  and  leaves  the 
scene.  Then  Ulysses,  turning  to  Teucer,  offers  him  his 
hand  in  friendship,  with  a  generosity  which  is  in  strong 
contrast  to  the  bitter  insolence  of  the  son  of  Atreus ; 
he  offers  also  to  assist  in  paying  the  last  honours  to  the 
noble  dead.  But  this  Teucer  cannot  allow,  "lest  it 
displease  the  dead  himself;"  and  so  Ulysses  departs, 
having,  so  far  as  he  could,  made  his  peace  Avith  the 
manes  of  his  ancient  enemy. 

Ulysses  and  Ajax  met  once  more  —  so  says  the 
Homeric  legend — in  the  lower  world.  "While  all  the 
other  heroes,  in  "  the  asphodel  meadow,"  press  forward 
to  greet  their  old  comrade  in  arms  who  has  come  to 
visit  them  in  the  flesh,  the  shade  of  Ajax  stands  aloof 
from  all  the  others,  brooding  over  the  injuries  of  his 
lifetime,  and  sullenly  turns  away  from  the  proffered 
courtesy  of  his  rival. 

Teucer  returned  to  Salamis,  taking  with  him  Tec- 
messa  and  Earysaces  ;  but,  as  he  had  foreseen,  Telamon 
received  liim  with  angry  reproaches  for  allowing  Ajax 
to  perish.  Then  Teucer  set  sail  for  Cyprus,  and  there 
he  founded  a  city  which  he  called  Salamis,  after  his 


122  SOPHOCLES. 

old  home.    Horace  describes  his  farewell  hanquet,  and 
his  spirited  address  to  the  companions  of  his  voyage : 

"  Where  fortune  hears  us,  than  my  sire  more  kind, 

There  let  us  go,  my  own,  my  gallant  crew : 
'Tis  Teucer  leads,  'tis  Teucer  breathes  the  wind  ; 

No  more  despair ;  Apollo's  word  is  true. 
Another  Salamis  in  kindlier  air 

Sliall  yet  arise.     Hearts,  that  have  home  with  me 
Worse  buffets  !    drown,  to-day,  in  wine  your  care ; 

To-morrow  we  recross  the  wide,  wide  sea !  "  * 

*  Odes,  I.  7  (Conington's  TransL) 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE   MAIDENS   OF   TRACU18. 

This  play,  like  many  of  the  Greek  tragedies,  takes 
its  name  not  from  the  plot  or  the  liero,  hut  from 
the  jiersonages  of  the  Chorus — that  very  important 
element  in  the  Greek  drama.  The  vague  title  tells 
nothing  to  an  English  reorder,  hut  every  Athenian 
knew,  at  least  hy  name,  the  little  Thessalian  town  of 
Trachis,  nestling  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Oita,  not  far 
from  the  famous  pass  of  Thermopyla3 ;  and  many,  like 
Plutarch,  had  visited  the  spot,  and  seen  for  themselves 
■what  tradition  had  consecrated  as  the  tomh  of  De- 
janira.  But  what,  after  all,  mattered  to  them  the  title 
of  the  play,  even  if  Trachis  had  heen  as  distant  as 
Babylon,  when  its  subject  was  perhaps  the  best-knowu 
story  in  all  mythology  ? 

Hercules  in  his  wanderings  had  come  to  Pleuron  in 
^tolia.  There  he  saw  and  fell  in  love  with  Dejanira, 
the  king's  daughter,  whose  hand  was  sought  by  a 
suitor  of  a  strange  sort — the  river-god  Achelous.  This 
potent  rival  had,  as  she  tells  us,  wooed  her  in  various 
shapes  (none  of  them,  it  must  be  confessed,  attractive), 


124  SOPHOCLES. 

— now  coming  as  a  "buU,  now  as  a  scaly  dragon,  now 
in  human  form,  with  a  hull's  head,  "  with  streams 
of  Avater  flowing  from  his  shaggy  beard."  Hercules 
wrestled  with  Achelous,  while  the  maiden  looked  on. 
at  a  prudent  distance ;  and  the  river-god,  after  being 
nearly  strangled  and  losing  one  of  his  horns,  gave  way, 
and  the  victor  bore  away  his  bride  in  triumph.  On 
their  way  homewards  they  came  to  the  river  Evenus, 
where  the  centaur  Nessus  dwelt,  who  Avas  wont  to 
carry  travellers  across.  Hercules  himself  breasted  the 
stream,  and  reached  the  further  bank  in  safety,  carry- 
ing his  lion's  skin,  his  bow,  and  the  famous  arrows 
which  had  been  dipped  in  the  poison  of  the  hydra. 
Hearing  a  cry,  he  looked  back,  and  saw  JSTessus  offer- 
ing violence  to  Dejanira,  as  he  was  bearing  her  across. 
Ovid — who  has  told  the  whole  story — describes  the 
prompt  vengeance  of  the  hero,  as  the  centaur  tries  to 
fl}'.     "  Tliiuk  not,  thou,"  exclaims  Hercules — 

" '  With  all  tlie  speed  of  all  thy  hoofs  to  'scape  ! 
My  wounds  are  swifter  than  my  feet ! '     The  act 
roUowed  the  word,  and  through  his  flying  back 
Impelled  before  his  breast  the  barb  outstood. 
And  as  he  plucked  it  thence,  from  either  wound 
Mingled  with  Lerna's  venom  gushed  the  blood. 
And  steeped  his  mantle's  fold.     *  Not  unavenged,' 
He  muttered,  '  will  I  perish  ! '  and  to  her 
He  would  have  ravished  gave  the  robe,  yet  warm 
With  poisoned  gore,  and  bade  her  with  that  gift 
At  need  assure  her  husband's  wavering  love."  * 

Dejanira  herself  comes  forward,  and,  as  the  single 
actor  was  wont  to  do  in  the  earlier  drama,  teUs  the 
•  Ovid's  Metam.  ix.  ii.  (transl.  by  King.) 


THE  MAIDENS  OF  TRACHIS.  125 

audience  the  history  of  her  troubles.  All  these  years 
of  lier  married  life,  though  her  husband  has  treated  her 
kindly,  and  cliildren  have  been  born  to  her,  she  has 
known  little  peace  of  mind.  Hercules  was  constantly 
absent,  fultilling  the  labours  imposed  on  him  by  Eurys- 
theus.  He  was  seldom  at  Trachis,  and  saw  his  chil- 
dren as  rarely  as  "  the  husbandman  who  visits  his 
distant  fields  at  seed-time  and  at  harvest."  For  fif- 
teen months  he  has  now  been  away  from  home,  and 
his  wife  is  sorely  troubled  at  heart ;  for  on  his  last 
departure  he  had  made  disposition  of  his  wealth,  and 
left  with  her  a  tablet,  on  which  was  engraved  an 
oracle  to  the  effect  that  the  next  year  would  be  the 
crisis  of  his  life — bringing  him  either  death  or  rest 
from  all  his  toils.  But  month  after  month  has  passed, 
and  still  Dejanira  has  heard  nothing  of  her  husband, 
and  she  fears  the  worst. 

Then  her  eldest  son  Hyllus  enters,  and  bids  his 
mother  be  of  good  cheer,  for  Hercules  is  even  now 
close  at  hand,  in  the  island  of  Euboea,  which  could 
almost  be  seen  from  Trachis.  There,  as  rumour  said, 
he  Avas  making  war  on  the  town  of  Eurytus;  and 
there,  at  the  suggestion  of  Dejanira,  Hyllus  sets  out, 
like  Telemachus,  to  obtain  more  certain  tidings  of  his 
father. 

The  Chorus  enter — young  girls  from  the  town  of 
Trachis  ;  and.  in  their  opening  song  they  endeavour  to 
console  and  reassure  their  neighbour  with  warm  sym- 
pathy. They  beseech  the  Sun-god  to  tell  them  where 
the  hero  is  at  that  moment. 


126  SOPHOCLES. 

"  Thou  flaming  Sun  !  whom  spangled  Nighty 
Self-destroying,  brings  to  light, 

Then  lulls  to  sleep  again  ; 
Bright  Herald,  girt  with  beaming  rays, 
Say,  where  Alcmena's  offspring  strays; 

Say,  lurks  he  on  the  main  ? 

Or  lays  his  head  to  rest 
On  Europe  or  on  Asia's  breast  ? 

In  pity  deign  reply, 

Thou  of  the  lordly  eye  ! 

His  bride,  erst  won  by  desperate  fray. 
Muses  where  lies  his  dangerous  way  ; 
Like  some  sad  bird,  her  soul  is  set 
On  constancy  and  vain  regret : 
Sleep  never  seals  those  eyes,  where  woe 
Lies  all  too  deep  for  tears  to  flow, 
While  thouglit  and  boding  Fancy's  dread 
Flit  ever  round  her  lonely  bed. 

Oft  when  the  northern  blast, 
Or  southern  winds  unwearied  rave, 

Ye  see  the  ocean  cast 
In  (j^uick  succession  wave  on  wave  ; 
So  to  whelm  old  Cadmus'  son, 
Rush  redoubled  labours  on, 
Thick  as  round  the  Cretan  shore 
The  swoJn  and  turbid  billows  roar : 
Yet  his  step  from  Pluto's  halls 
Still  some  unerring  God  recalls. 
;My  Queen!  disdain  not  thou  to  brook 
My  chidings  kind,  and  soft  rebuke, 
Nor  cast  away,  in  morbid  mood. 
The  cheering  hope  of  future  good. 
For  universal  nature's  lord, 
Saturn's  great  son,  by  all  adored, 


THE  MAIDEXS  OF   TRACUIS.  127 

Enjoyment  willed  not  to  bestow 
On  human  lot,  unmixed  with  woe  : 
Grief  and  delight,  in  endles-s  cliange, 
Round  man  in  mazy  circles  range, 
Like  never-setting  stars,  that  roll 
In  ceaseless  courses  round  the  pole. 
Soon  spangled  night  must  yield  to  day, 
Soon  wealth,  soon  trouble  flits  away ; 
In  turn,  so  fixed  the  eternal  plan. 
Bliss  and  bereavement  wait  on  man. 
My  Queen  !  on  hope  thy  soul  be  stayed, 

Nor  yield  thee  to  despair  ; 
When  hath  not  Jove  his  children  made 

His  providential  care  ? " — (A.) 

But  Dejanira,  tliough  she  appreciates  tlieir  kindness, 
is  but  half-convinced  by  the  words  of  the  Chorus. 
They  are  but  young  girls,  she  says,  and  know  little 
of  the  sad  experiences  of  a  wife  and  mother.  Kiglit 
after  night  she  has  started  up  in  an  agony  of  terror, 
lest  she  should  be  bereaved  of  the  "  noblest  man  on 
earth ; "  and  that  mysterious  tablet  causes  her  grave 
misgivings. 

Suddenly  comes  a  messenger  with  good  news.  Her- 
cules is  not  only  alive,  but  is  on  the  point  of  retuniing 
home  after  victory,  and  has  sent  his  herald  Lichas  with 
the  captives  on  before  him.  Then  Lichas  liimself 
enters,  and  behind  him  follow  a  train  of  women,  the 
unfortunate  prizes  of  the  war.  Dejanira  turns  eagerly 
to  the  herald.  "  Tell  me,"  she  asks,  "  0  dearest  of 
messengers,  what  I  most  wish  to  know, — shall  I  re- 
ceive Hercules  again  alive  ? "  "  Yes,"  is  the  answ^er  ; 
"I   left  him   alive   and   strong,   and   smitten   of  no 


128  SOPHOCLES. 

disease."  Dejanira  is  made  happy  by  the  answer — 
so  happy,  that  she  fears  some  fresh  disaster.  She  can- 
not help  contrasting  her  own  joy  with  the  forlorn  and 
helpless  state  of  these  captive  women.  Heaven  grant, 
is  her  prayer,  such  sorrow  may  never  come  on  her  or 
hers ! 

Then  her  attention  is  caught  by  one  of  the  captives 
standing  somewhat  apart  from  the  others,  and  a 
woman's  instinct  impels  her  to  ask  of  Lichas  the  name 
and  history  of  this  pale  and  graceful  stranger — ■ 

"  For,  more  than  all,  my  own  heart  pities  her. 
And,  more  than  all,  her  soul  is  quick  to  feel." — (P.) 

But  Lichas  professes  ignorance.  He  knows  nothing  of 
this  maiden,  except  that  she  has  done  nothing  but  weep 
and  wring  her  hands  ever  since  she  left  her  home  on 
the  "  windy  heights  "  of  CEchalia ;  and  she  has  been 
possessed  by  a  dumb  spirit,  and  will  answer  no 
questions.  And  then  he  leads  his  retinue  off  the 
stage. 

Then  the  same  old  messenger  M'ho  had  preceded  the 
herald  enters  again.  He  is,  as  M.  Girardin  terms  him, 
an  "  indiscreet  lago,"  *  whose  meddlesome  loquacity 
produces  graver  mischief  than  the  machinations  of  a 
hardened  villain.  "With  a  mysterious  and  important 
air  he  begs  an  audience ;  he  tells  his  mistress  that 
Lichas  has  deceived  her ;  that  this  fair  and  grace- 
ful maiden  is  none  other  than  lole,  the  daughter  of 
Eurytus  ;  and  that  it  was  love  of  her  which  had  im- 

*  Cours  de  Litt.  Dramat.,  v.  255. 


THE  MAIDEXS  OF  TRACIIIS.  129 

pellod  Hercules  to  attack  and  storm  Q^clialia.  Such 
is  the  whole  truth,  concludes  this  ancient  mischief- 
maker,  which  it  has  been  his  jiainful  duty  to  tell — at 
all  costs. 

Lichas  now  comes  to  ask  his  mistress  if  she  has  any 
parting  message  for  Hercules  ;  and  Dejanira  confronts 
liiiu  with  his  falsehood.  He  protests  and  denies,  and 
re})cats  his  former  story.  Then  Dejanira,  with  a 
woman's  duj)licity,  bids  him  speak  out  and  fear  no- 
thing. She  knows  the  ways  of  men — she  knows  the 
power  of  love — she  knows  the  amorous  temper  of  her 
husband  : — 

"  Has  he  not, 
Our  Hercules,  of  all  the  men  that  lived. 
Wedded  most  wives,  and  yet  not  one  of  them 
Has  had  from  me  or  evil  speech  or  taunt  ? 
Nor  will  she  have  ;  though  she  in  love  for  him 
Should  melt  and  pine—  for  lo  !  I  pitied  her 
When  first  I  saw  her,  for  her  beauty's  sake  : 
For  it,  I  knew,  had  wrecked  her  life's  fond  liope. 
And  she,  poor  soul,  against  her  will,  had  wrought 
The  ruin  of  her  fatherland,  and  brought 
Its  people  into  bondage.     Let  all  tliis 
Go  to  the  winds.     For  thee,  I  bid  thee,  I, 
Be  false  to  others,  but  to  me  be  true." — (P.) 

Lichas  is  completely  deceived  by  this  speech,  and  is 
persuaded  that  Dejanira  will  resign  herself  quietly  to 
her  fate.  Accordingly  he  confiruis  what  the  messenger 
had  already  told  her;  but,  like  a  good  servant,  he 
makes  out  the  best  case  he  can  for  his  master. 

"  Well  then,  dear  mistress,  since  I  see  that  thou, 
Being  human,  hast  a  human  heart,  and  Icnow'st 
A.  0.  vol.  X.  I 


130  SOPHOCLES. 

No  stubborn  pv.vpose,  I  will  tell  thee  all, 

The  whole  truth,  nought  concealing.     All  is  so 

As  this  man  tells  thee.     Strong  desire  for  her 

Did  seize  on  Heracles,  and  so  her  land, 

ffichalia,  Avas  laid  waste  by  armed  host, 

And  brought  full  low.     And  this  (for  I  must  tell 

His  doings  also)  he  nor  bade  conceal 

Nor  yet  denied  ;  but  I  myself,  dear  lady, 

Fearing  to  grieve  thy  heart  with  these  my  words. 

Did  sin,  if  thou  dost  count  it  as  a  sin. 

And  now,  since  thou  dost  know  the  whole  of  things 

For  his  sake  and  for  thine,  full  equally 

Treat  the  girl  kindly,  and  those  words  of  thine 

Thou  saidst  of  her,  be  firm  and  true  to  them ; 

For  he  whose  might  prevails  in  all  things  else, 

In  all  is  conquered  by  his  love  for  her." — (P.) 

Then  lie  takes  his  leave.  Dejanira  bethinks  herself 
of  some  means  by  which  she  may  recall  the  waning 
affections  of  her  husband,  and  she  remembers  that  she 
has  still  preserved  the  blood  which  had  flowed  from 
the  wound  of  ISTessus,  but  has  never  yet  used  it,  though 
the  Centaur  had  assured  her  it  would  prove  a  resistless 
love-charm.  After  taking  counsel  with  the  Chorus, 
•who  advise  her  to  make  experiment  before  putting  her 
project  into  action,  she  smears  an  embroidered  robe 
with  tlie  blood,  and  intrusts  it  to  Lichas,  with  strict 
charge  that  none  should  wear  it  before  Hercules  him- 
self :— 

"  Nor  must  the  light  of  sunshine  look  on  it, 
Nor  sacred  shrine,  nor  flame  of  altar  hearth, 
Before  he  stands,  conspicuous,  showing  it 
On  day  of  sacrifice,  in  sight  of  gods. 
Fox  so  I  vowed,  if  I  should  see  him  safe 


THE  MAIDENS   OF   TR AC II IS.  131 

At  home,  or  hear  his  safety  well  assured, 
To  clollie  hiiu  with  this  tunic,  ami  send  forth 
The  glorious  worshipper  in  glorious  robe," — (P.) 

But  hardly  has  Lichas  departed,  carrying  with  him 
the  i'atal  gift,  than  Dejanira  enters  again  in  an  agoiiy 
of  alarm.  She  had,  according  to  the  Centaur's  instruc- 
tions, kept  tlie  blood  in  a  bronze  vessel  "  untouched 
by  fire  or  sunlight " — even  when  she  smeared  it  on 
the-  robe,  it  had  been  in  a  dark  chamber  within  the 
house ;  but  she  had  thrown  the  wisp  of  wool  which 
she  had  used  for  the  i)urpose  on  the  ground  in  the 
sunshine.  There  it  had  melted  and  crumbled  into 
dust  in  a  strange  fashion — ■ 

"  And  from  the  earth  where  it  had  lain,  there  oozed 
Thick  clots  of  foam,  as  when  in  vintage  bright 
Rich  must  is  poured  upon  the  earth  from  vine 
Sacred  to  Bacchus  ;  and  I  know  not  now 
AVhich  way  of  thought  to  turn,  but  see  too  well 
That  I  have  done  a  deed  most  perilous," — (P.) 

AVhy,  she  reasons,  should  the  Centaur  have  wished  her 
well  1  No  —  the  philtre  -must  have  been  given  with 
a  purpose,  and  her  husband  will  die  of  that  "  black 
poison  "  in  which  his  own  arrows  have  been  steeped. 

And  at  that  moment  Hyllus  rushes  .in,  and  cliarges 
her  with  being  his  father's  murderess.  He  has  just 
come  from  witnessing  the  agony  Avhich  had  convulsed 
Hercules  in  the  midst  of  his  triumphal  sacrifice  to 
Jove.  The  blaze  of  fire  from  the  altar  had  excited  the 
latent  and  deadly  power  of  the  venom  in  which  the 
robe  had  been  steeped  ;  maddened  with  pain,  the  hero 
had  seized  on  Lichas,  the  unlucky  hringcr  of  the  pre- 


132  SOPHOCLES. 

sent,  and  had  dashed  Ms  brains  out  against  the  rocks; 
then  he  had  burst  away  from  his  attendants,  and — 
Ovid  gives  even  a  more  vivid  picture  of  the  giant's 
sufferings  than  Sophocles — 

"  And  filled  all  leafy  CEta  with  his  groans, 
Striving  to  rend  away  the  deadly  robe 
That  with  it  rent  the  skin,  and  horribly 
Or  to  his  limbs  inseparably  glued 
Refused  to  part,  or,  as  it  parted,  bare 
From  the  big  bones  the  quivering  muscle  tore  ! 
And  in  that  poisonous  heat  his  very  blood, 
Like  white-hot  steel  in  cooling  water  plunged, 
Seethed  hissing  in  his  veins  ; — the  greedy  fire 
Devoured  his  inmost  vitals  ; — audible  snapped 
The  crackling  sinews  ;  and  from  every  limb 
The  lurking  venom  broke  in  livid  sweat. 
And  sucked  the  melting  marrow  from  his  bones."  * 


D 


Then  Hj'llus,  in  compliance  with  his  prayer,  had 
placed  him  in  a  ship,  and  he  was  even  now  on  his 
way  to  Trachis.  But  may  all  the  curses  of  the  gods 
fall  on  his  mother's  head,  he  concludes,  for 

"  Murdering  the  noblest  man  of  all  the  earth, 
Of  whom  thou  ne'er  sbalt  see  the  like  again." 

Dejanira  had  listened  in  silence,  both  to  the  tale  of 
her  husband's  agony,  and  to  the  cruel  reproaches  of 
her  son.  All  her  happiness  had  been  bound  up  with 
the  wellbeing  of  Hercules.  She  had  loved  him  with 
devoted  affection,  in  spite  of  his  long  absences  and 
his  countless  amours ;  and  now  by  her  own  thought- 
less act  she  has  destroyed  this  idol  of  her  heart,  and 

*  Ovid,  Metara.  ix.  ill.  (Kinj;.) 


THE  MAIDENS  OF  TRACHIS.  133 

has  plunged  tho  man  whom  she  so  faithfully  loved  into 
bodily  torment  such  as  she  could  not  have  devised 
even  for  her  bitterest  enemy.  She  is  pow^erlcss  to 
avert  or  to  heal  the  sufferings  which  she  has  so  un- 
wittingly inllicted  ;  and  the  voice  of  conscience  within 
tells  her  that  she  can  give  but  one  real  proof  of  her 
affection.  It  is  the  resolve  which  forms  the  refrain  in 
the  pathetic  epistle  which  Ovid  imagines  her  to  have 
written  to  her  husband — 

"  Inipia,  quid  dubitas,  Deianira,  mori  ? "  * 

And  so,  without  answering  her  son,  she  leaves  the 
stage,  and  soon  her  nurse  comes  to  tell  the  maidens 
that  all  is  over.  After  wandering  restlessly  from  room 
to  room,  mourning  for  the  evil  fate  which  had  come 
upon  her,  she  had  thrown  herself  upon  the  bed  of 
Hercules,  and  there  ended  her  sorrow  by  a  mortal 
wound  from  his  sword  ;  and  then  Hyllus,  learning  her 
innocence  too  late,  had  embraced  the  insensate  body, 
with  idle  tears  and  kisses. 

As  the  Chorus  are  lamenting  her  cmel  death,  the 
tramp  of  approaching  steps  is  heard,  and  Hyllus  and 
some  attendants  are  seen  carrying  a  litter,  on  which 
the  liuge  frame  of  Hercules  lies  stretched.  The  convul- 
sive pains  which  had  so  cruelly  tortured  him  are  lulled 
for  the  moment,  and  he  is  plunged  in  a  death-like 
stupor;  but  he  is  roused  by  his  son's  voice,  and  Avith 
consciousness  his  agony  revives,  and  he  groans  aloud 
in  his  despair.     AVill  none,  he  asks,  smite  him  w^th  the 

•  "Why,  guilty  Dcjanira,  wliy  uot  die?"  . 


134  SOPHOCLES. 

sword,  and  give  him  tlie  death  he  longs  for  1  Then  his 
thoughts  turn  to  her  who  has  wrought  these  sufferings, 
and  it  angers  him  to  think  that  the  gigantic  strength, 
which,  Samson-like,  had  overcome  all  forms  of  death, 
and  had  tamed  even  the  lion  in  his  wrath,  should  have 
fallen  victim  to  the  snares  of  a  Delilah — 

"  For  she  a  woman,  woman-like  in  mind. 
Not  of  man's  strength,  alone,  without  a  sword, 

She  hath  destroyed  me 

Come,  my  son,  be  bold, 

And  pity  me,  in  all  ways  pitialile. 
Who  like  a  girl  must  weep  and  shriek  in  pain  ; 
And  yet  lives  there  not  one,  who,  ere  it  came. 
Could  say  that  he  had  seen  this  man  thus  act, 
But  ever  I  bore  pain  without  a  groan." — (P.) 

Let  Hyllus,  therefore,  if  he  loves  him,  bring  this  false 
woman  near  him,  that  he  may  slay  her  before  he  dies 
himself. 

Then  Hyllus  tells  him  of  the  fatal  mistake  of  De- 
janira,  and  how  fatally  the  mistake  had  been  atoned. 
AVlien  Hercules  hears  that  the  robe  had  been  dipped 
in  the  Centaur's  blood,  he  recognises  the  will  of  the 
gods,  and  bows  to  his  fate.  It  had  been  foretold  to 
him  long  before,  that,  like  Macbeth,  he  should  die  by 
the  hand  of  "none  of  woman  born  " — 

"And  thus  the  centaur  monster,  as  Avas  shown. 
Though  dead  did  slay  me,  who  till  now  did  live." 

This  knowledge  seems  to  teach  him  resignation.  He 
utters  no  more  groans  or  ciies  of  anguish,  but  conjures 
Hyllus  to  bear  liis  body  to  the  top  of  CEta,  and  there 


THE   MAIDENS  OF   TRACIllS.  135 

to  place  it  on  a  pile  of  wood,  and  kindle  the  flames 

himself : — 

"  Let  110  tear 
Of  wailing  enter  in,  but  do  thy  deed. 
If  thou  art  mine,  without  a  tear  or  groan  ; 
Or  else,  though  I  be  in  the  grave,  my  curse 
Shall  rest  upon  thee  grievous  evermore." — (P.) 

One  more  demand  he  makes  (according  to  our  ideas, 
a  revolting  request) — Hyllus  must  take  lole  to  wife. 
The  son,  after  much  reluctance,  promises  obedience ; 
and  so  the  drama  ends.  Ovid  tells  us  how  one  of 
these  commands  was  obeyed — how  the  pile  was  reared ; 
how  calm,  "  as  though  at  a  banquet,"  the  hero  spread 
his  lion's  skin  over  it  and  reclined  thereon ;  how  the 
roaring  flames  rose  upwards  and  around  him — 

"  And  as  some  serpent  casts  his  wrinkled  skin. 
Rejuvenate,  and  with  new  burnished  scales 
Deli;4lited  basks,  so,  of  these  mortal  limbs 
UntramuielleJ,  all  the  Hero's  nobler  part 
In  nobler  shape  and  loftier  stature  rose 
Renewed,  august,  majestic,  like  a  God  ! 
Whom  with  those  four  immortal  steeds  tliat  whirl 
His  chariot-wheels,  the  Sire  omnipotent 
Upbore  sublime  above  the  hollow  clouds, 
And  set  amid  the  radiant  stars  of  Heaven."* 

*  Ovid,  Metam.  ix.  iv.  (King.) 


CHAPIER  VIL 


PHILOOTETES. 


All  that  was  mortal  of  Hercules,  as  ^v^e  have  seen, 
perished  in  the  flames  on  Mount  CEta ;  hut  his  famous 
bow  and  the  arrows  with  the  hydra's  blood  were 
not  burnt  with  the  hero.  Philoctetes,  his  armour- 
bearer,  had  been  among  the  few  who  had  aided  Hyllus 
in  carrying  his  father  up  the  steep  sides  of  the  moun- 
tain ;  he  had  gathered  the  wood  for  the  funeral-pile ; 
and  it  was  said  that  he  had  with  his  own  hands 
applied  the  torch  and  kindled  the  flames.  In  grati- 
tude for  these  last  offices,  Hercules  liad  given  him  the 
bow  and  the  poisoned  arrows ;  which  proved  a  posses- 
sion almost  as  full  of  trouble  to  their  new  owner  as 
they  had  to  the  hero  himself. 

Philoctetes  had  sailed  for  Troy  with  the  rest  of  tlie 
armament ;  but  on  the  voyage  it  happened  that  tlie 
(ireek  fleet  touched  at  Chrysa,  and  there,  while  rashly 
treading  on  consecrated  ground,  he  had  been  bitten  in 
the  foot  by  a  venomous  serpent.  The  wound  gangrened 
and  festered — and  so  noisome  was  the  stench  from  it, 
and  so  terrible  were  the  suff'erer's  cries  of  agony,  that, 


PIIILOCTETES.  137 

by  the  advice  of  Ul^'sses,  he  was  landed  while  asleep  on 
the  desert  isle  of  Lemnos,  and  the^e  left  alone  in  liis 
misery. 

It  is  at  Lemnos,  accordingly,  that  the  scene  of  this 
tragedy  is  laid.  Instead  of  the  usual  palace  or  ances- 
tral mansion  in  the  background — Avith  the  city  on  one 
side  and  the  open  country  on  the  other — the  spectators 
have  nothing  before  them  but  rocks  and  waves ;  and 
these  for  nine  weary  years  had  been  the  sole  compan- 
ions of  Philoctetes.*  From  time  to  time  some  stray 
ship  had  come,  and  the  sailors  had  so  far  pitied  him  as 
to  give  him  some  scanty  supplies  of  food  and  clothing  ; 
but  none  would  listen  to  his  prayers  that  they  would 
carry  him  home  with  them  to  Greece.  And  so  he  had 
lingered  on,  tortured  by  his  rankling  wound, — satisfy- 
ing his  hunger  with  the  birds  that  he  brought  down 
with  his  bow,  and  with  difficidty  dragging  his  limbs 
to  the  spring  to  quench  his  thirst. 

Meanwhile  Troy  was  still  being  besieged,  though 
many  of  the  great  heroes  of  the  war  had  met  their 

*  We  may  compare  a  similar  passage  in  Tennyson's  Enoch 
Arden,  p.  32, — 

"  The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak,  the  lawns 
And  winding  glade  hi^li  up  like  ways  to  heaven, 
The  glories  ol'  the  broad  belt  of  the  world, 
All  these  he  saw  ;  but  what  he  fain  had  seen 
He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human  face, 
Nor  ever  heard  a  kindly  voice,  but  heard 
The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean-fowl, 
The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the  reef, 
As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all  day  long 
Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 
A  shipwrecked  sailor,  waiting  for  a  sail. " 


138  SOPHOCLES. 

deaths  around  its  walls.  Hector  had  fallen  by  the 
sword  of  Achilles.  Achilles  himself  had  been  struck 
with  an  arrow  from  the  bow  of  Paris,  guided  by  his 
enemy  the  Sun-god.  Ajax,  as  we  have  seen,  had 
slain  himself  in  his  despair.  But  the  surviving  chief- 
tains maintained  the  war  with  the  same  obstinacy  as 
before ;  and  recently  a  new  aspect  had  been  given  to 
the  struggle.  They  had  captured  Helenus,  son  of 
Priam,  endowed  like  Cassandra  with  the  gift  of  pro- 
phecy; and  from  him  they  learned  that  an  oracle  had 
disclosed  that  Troy  should  never  be  taken  but  by  the 
son  of  Achilles  and  with  the  bow  of  Hercules. 

Accordingly,  when  the  play  opens,  a  Greek  vessel 
has  jast  reached  Lemnos,  bearing  a  deputation  from  the 
camp,  to  fetch  Philoctetes  and  his  fated  arroAvs.  At 
last  in  their  own  need  the  Greeks  have  bethought  them 
of  the  comrade  whom  they  had  so  cruelly  deserted. 
And  it  is  Ulysses,  of  all  men, — Ulysses,  by  whose  ad- 
vice the  unhappy  man  had  been  left  behind, — who 
now  comes  to  induce  him — by  persuasion  if  possible, 
by  force  if  need  be — to  give  the  allies  the  aid  of  his 
weapons.  Such  an  ambassador  on  such  an  errand 
would  have  seemed  of  all  men  the  least  likely  to  succeed. 
Sophocles  probably  did  but  take  this  part  of  the  tale 
as  he  found  it ;  and  loyalty  to  the  epic  tradition,  that 
no  enterprise  which  required  diplomacy,  eloquence,  or 
subtle  device,  could  possibly  be  undertaken  by  the 
Greeks  without  the  aid  of  "  tlie  man  of  many  Aviles," 
led  the  story-tellers,  and  Sophocles  after  them,  to  make 
him  the  envoy  on  this  as  on  similar  occasions.  With 
him,  however,  is  a  comrade  of  a  very  different  charac- 


PHILOCTETES.  139 

ter.  This  is  the  young  N'eoptolemus  (bettor  kno-svn  to 
us,  i»erhaps,  by  his  surname  of  Pyrrhus — "the  Eed"), 
son  of  the  dead  Achilles.  The  poet's  reasons  for  thus 
associating  him  with  Ulysses  (for  here  the  dramatist 
takes  original  ground  of  his  own)  are  sufficiently  clear. 
The  young  chief  was  wholly  guiltless  of  any  compli- 
city in  the  injury  done  to  the  hero  by  the  older  Greeks 
in  deserting  him  ;  for  he  was  then  a  boy  in  Phthiotis, 
far  from  the  scene  of  action.  Neoptolemus,  too,  has 
a  special  interest  in  procuring  the  charmed  weapons, 
for  it  is  to  him  the  Fates  point  as  the  hero  who  is  to 
win  the  town  of  Troy. 

The  two  voyagers  have  landed,  and  they  commence 
the  dialogue  of  the  piece.  Ulysses  knows  the  locali- 
ties well.  The  cave  Avith  double  entrance,  with  the 
fountain  close  at  hand — it  was  here  that,  so  many  years 
ago,  they  had  left  their  wretched  comrade  asleep.  He 
bids  I^eoptolemus  advance  along  the  rocks  and  explore 
the  neighbourhood,  and  look  cautiously  into  the  cavern, 
to  ascertain  whether  he  whom  they  seek  lies  within. 
He  keeps  himself  in  tlie  background,  for  to  be  dis- 
covered by  Philoctetes  would  be  ruin  to  his  plan.  The 
younger  chief  easily  finds  the  place — the  bed  of  leaves, 
the  wooden  driuking-vessel,  the  few  rags  for  dressing 
the  wounded  foot — such  is  tlie  poor  wealth  of  the  oc- 
cupant ;  but  he  is  not  within.  Ulysses,  then,  after 
setting  one  of  the  crew  to  watch,  discloses  to  his  young 
companion — very  conveniently  for  the  audience — the 
plan  which  he  wishes  him  to  pursue  in  order  to  get 
Philoctetes  and  his  arrows  on  board  their  vessel.  If  the 
too  prosaic  aud  curious  reader  should  remark  that  this 


/ 


140  SOPHOCLES. 

disclosure  comes  very  late,  when  there  had  been  such 
ample  time  during  the  voyage  for  Ulysses  to  explain 
his  whole  design,  it  may  he  very  fairly  answered,  that  the 
wily  Greek  was  aware  that  there  was  much  in  it  which 
was  sure  to  disgust  the  young  chief's  ingenuous  nature,  as 
it  presently  does  •  and  that  he  was  anxious  not  to  enter 
into  these  awkward  details  until  the  last  moment,  when 
it  would  he  almost  too  late  for  the  other  to  draw  hack. 
The  plan  is  this  :  Ulysses  himself  is  to  keep  out  of 
sight  entirely, — for  him  to  show  his  face  on  the  island 
would  be  quite  enough  to  determine  the  sufferer  nevei 
to  set  foot  on  board  the  same  vessel  as  his  enemy,  and 
probably  to  make  them  both  a  mark  for  his  terrible 
arrows.  Neoptolemus  is  to  approach  him,  with  a  very 
plausible  tale ;  how  the  Greeks,  after  bringing  him  to 
Troy,  had  refused  to  give  him  tlie  arms  of  his  father 
Achilles,  awarding  tliem  instead  to  Ulysses,  upon 
whose  name  he  receives  full  permission  to  shower 
every  term  of  scorn  and  reproach.  Ulysses  will  take 
it  rather  as  a  compliment,  under  the  circumstances, 
that  he  should  do  so.  He  is  to  add  that,  stung  by 
this  insult,  he  had  left  the  fleet,  and  is  now  on  his  voy- 
age homewards,  and  to  offer  Philoctetes  a  safe  passage 
to  liis  own  country. 

The  younger  chief  at  first  repudiates  utterly  any  such 
falsehood  and  treachery  : — 

"  The  thing  which  even  in  word  I  loathe  to  hear, 
Son  of  Laertes, — that  I  scorn  to  do. 
My  nature  was  not  made  for  crooked  guile  ; 
Kor  mine,  nor,  as  men  say,  his  that  begot  me. 
I  am  content  to  take  the  man  by  force, 


PIIILOCTETES.  141 

So  not  by  treacherj'- ;  for  his  single  strength 
Were  scarci;  a  match,  I  trow,  for  all  our  crew. 
Still,  having  shared  thine  errand,  I  were  luath 
To  seem  a  recreant  now  ;  yet  would  I  rather 
Fail  through  luir  deeds  than  win  a  foul  success." 

The  reader  wants  little  more  to  put  him  in  posses- 
6ion  of  the  character  of  Xeoptolemus.  Gallant  and 
impetuous,  open  and  chivalrous,  he  is  the  true  son  of 
the  ideal  knight  of  Greek  romance,  the  great  AchiDes, 
who  had  declared,  in  Homer's  words — Avhich  -we  can 
see,  from  the  brief  passing  allusion,  were  in  the  mind 
of  the  dramatist,  as  he  knew  they  surely  would  be  in 
those  of  his  audience — 

"  Who  dares  think  one  thing  and  another  tell, 
My  heart  detests  him  as  the  gates  of  hell."  * 

Not  so  Ulysses.  The  crafty  man  of  the  world  sneers 
at  the  youthful  enthusiast  for  honesty  and  straightfor- 
wardness. Such  things  are  very  well — in  their  time 
and  place.     He  himself  had  tried  them  : — 

"  Son  of  a  gallant  sire,  I  was  young  once, 
And  used  my  tongue  not  much,  my  hand  full  promptly; 
Bat  now,  schooled  by  experience,  I  can  see 
That  in  all  mortal  dealings  'tis  the  tongue 
And  not  the  hand  that  wins  the  nlaster3^" 

After  a  brief  parley,  the  plausible  counsels  of 
Ulysses  prevail  over  the  better  feelings  of  his  com- 
rade. The  argument  Avhich  the  latter  cannot  resist  is, 
that  Avithout  these  arrows  of  Hercules  he  will  lose  the 

•  Iliad,  ix.  312 — Pope's  translation,  which  even  Mr  Glad- 
stone pronounces  "not  quite  unworthy"  of  the  original. 


142  SOPHOCLES. 

glory  of  taking  Troy.  So  Ulysses  leaves  the  stage, 
commending  Ins  young  friend — Avitli  a  calculating 
piety  -vvliich  unhappily  is  not  peculiar  to  pagan  dra- 
matists— to  the  care  of  the  goddess  of  Wisdom,  his 
own  special  protectress,  and  to  Hermes,  the  god  of 
guile.  The  piety  of  Ulysses  (for  he  was  pious  after 
his  own  fashion)  breathes  the  sjDirit  of  the  famous 
prayer  in  the  '  Critic,' — 

"  Grant  us  to  accomplish  all  our  ends, 
And  sanctify  whatever  means  we  use 
To  gain  them." 

The  Chorus,  who  now  take  up  the  action,  are  com- 
posed in  this  play  of  the  crew  of  Neoptolemus's  vessel, 
and  appear,  from  their  reminiscences,  to  be  some  of  the 
veteran  "  Myrmidons  "  who  had  served  at  Troy  under 
his  father  Achilles.  They  proceed,  by  the  young 
chiefs  permission,  to  explore  the  island ;  keeping  a 
careful  \?atch,  however,  lest  its  solitary  inhabitant 
sliould  suddenly  surprise  them,  and  launch  against 
such  intruders  his  poisoned  shafts.  Neoptolemus 
shows  them  the  opening  in  the  rock  which  leads  to 
the  cavern,  but  tells  them  that  the  sufferer  is  not  now 
williin.  They  soon  hear  the  cry  of  one  in  pain ;  as 
they  listen,  the  sound  comes  nearer,  and,  dragging  his 
sleps  painfully  along  the  rocky  pathway,  Philoctetes 
makes  his  appearance.  He  hails  the  strangers,  and 
imj^uires  tlieir  country  and  their  errand  : — 

"Your  outward  guise  and  dress  of  Hellas  speak, 
To  me  most  dear,  and  yet  I  fain  would  hear 
Your  speech  ;  and  draw  not  back  from  me  in  dread, 
As  fearing  this  my  wild  and  savage  look, 


PIIILOCTETES.  143 

But  pity  one  unhappy,  left  alone, 

Thus  ht'l])less,  friendless,  worn  with  weaxy  ills  : 

Sjieak,  if  it  be  ye  come  to  me  as  friends. 

Neop.  Know  this  then  first,  O  stran<,'er,  that  we  come 
Of  Hellas  all;  for  this  thou  seek'st  to  know. 

ritil.  O  dear-loved  sound  !  Ah  nie!  what  joy  it  is 
After  lonf,'  years  to  hear  a  voice  like  thine  ! 
What  led  thee  hither,  what  need  brought  thee  here  ? 
Whither  thy  voyage,  what  blest  M'ind  bore  thee  on  1 
Tell  all,  that  I  may  know  thee  who  thou  art. 

Neop.  By  birth  I  come  from  sea-girt  Skyros'  isle, 
And  I  sail  homeward,  I,  Achilles'  son, 
Named  Neoptolemos.    Now  know'st  thou  all." — (P.) 

And  Joes  ITeoptolemus  know  the  "wretched  man 
before  him?  asks  Philoctetes.  The  young  chief,  of 
course,  professes  entire  ignorance  ;  and  Philoctetes 
proceeds  to  tell  his  miserable  history,  which  we  have 
told  hefore  ;  and  he  invokes  curses  on  the  Atreidse  and 
on  Ulysses,  who  planned  his  wrongs. 

Then  Neoptolemus  tells  his  story,  as  arranged  be- 
tween himself  and  Ulysses  previously.  He,  too,  has 
reason  to  curse  the  brother-kings  and  the  false  Ulysses. 
Put  his  very  first  Avords  remind  Philoctetes,  and  re- 
mind the  audience,  of  the  long  years  which  have 
elapsed  since  he  was  here  deserted  by  his  comrades, 
"  When  the  Fates  ruled  it  that  Achilles  died." 

"What — breaks  in  the  exile — is  Achilles  dead?  He  is 
indeed,  and  Ulysses  and  the  Atrcidte  have  rejected  his 
son's  rightful  claim  to  the  hero's  armour.  Nothing 
Avliirh  he  hears  of  Ulysses,  in  the  way  of  baseness  or 
falsehood,  can  surprise  Philoctetes.  I^or  had  he  ever 
much  confidence  in  the  justice  of  the  sons  of  Atreus. 


144  SOPHOCLES. 

But  tliere  was  one  chief  among  the  Greeks  who  would 
surely,  he  thought,  have  prevented  this  wrong.  Ajax 
was  honest  surely,  if  none  else — 

"  He  was  no  more,  O  stranger.     Had  he  lived, 
I  had  not  thus  been  cheated  of  my  right." 

True — the  questioner  had  again  forgotten  the  changes 
of  ten  years.  Is  it  then  possible  (he  grasps  eagerly  at 
the  hope)  that  his  bitter  enemy  Ulysses — "  the  bastard 
of  Sisyphus,"  as  he  calls  him — and  Diomed,  who  had 
been  his  abettor  in  the  treachery,  are  they  too  dead  ?  for 
at  least  they  were  unfit  to  live.    Keoptolemus  replies — 

"  In  sooth,  not  the}'  :  be  sure  they  flom-ish  yet, 
Holding  high  place  amid  the  Argive  host." 

And  If  estor — the  noble  old  warrior,  his  personal  friend, 
whose  prudent  counsel  was  wont  to  curb  the  rashness 
of  the  younger  captains — he  is  probably  dead  also? 
Xo  ;  the  old  man  lives,  but  lives  to  mourn  the  loss  of 
Antilochus,  the  son  of  his  old  age,  whom  death,  in  its 
l)itter  irony,  has  taken  before  the  father.  And  Patro- 
clus,  the  trusty  friend  of  Achilles  % — 

"  He,  too,  has  fallen.     Lo  !  in  one  brief  word 
I  tell  thee  all :  War  never,  ■v^dth  good  will, 
Doth  choose  the  evil  man,  or  leave  the  good. 

Phil.  I  hold  it  true ;  and  for  that  very  cause 
Will  ask  thee  yet  as  to  one  worthless  \\Tetch, 
Of  subtle  tongue  and  crafty,  how  he  fares  ? 

He  must  mean  Ulysses,  says  Keoptolemus, — follow- 
ing his  chief's  instructions  to  abuse  him,  apparently 
Avith  considerable  zest.  But  it  is  Thersites,  the  mob- 
orator  of  Homer,  the  man  who  boldly  speaks  evil  of 


nilLOCTETES.  145 

dig-nities,  who  is  in  Pliiloctetes'  mind.  Every  Athen- 
ian in  the  audience  would  remember  the  description  of 
him  in  the  Iliad.  He  is  alive,  of  course  ?  Neoptole- 
mus  understands  tliat  he  is,  though  he  has  never  seen 
him.     Philoctetea  replies  bitterly — 

"Well  may  he  live,  for  nothing  bad  will  die, 
So  well  the  gods  do  fence  it  round  about  ; 
And  still  they  joy  to  turn  from  Hades  back 
The  cunning  and  the  crafty,  while  they  send 
The  just  and  good  below." — (P.) 

Neoptolemus  purposes  ostensibly  to  return  to  his 
ship,  to  wait  for  the  rising  of  the  breeze  which  is  to 
bear  him  home  to  Scyros.  For  he  will  never  see  the 
Greek  camp  and  the  sons  of  Atreus  more.  Kever 
again  will  he  be  found  amongst  a  company 

"  Where  still  the  evil  lord  it  o'er  the  good. 
And  honour  starves,  and  cowardice  bears  sway." 

He  bids  farewell  to  Pliiloctetes,  and  prays  that  heaven 
may  soon  send  some  cure  for  his  pains.  Then  follows 
a  scene  which,  in  the  hands  of  a  good  actor,  must  have 
been  one  of  the  most  effective  in  the  play.  Seeing 
himself  about  to  be  thus  a  second  time  deserted,  Phil- 
octetes  breaks  into  an  agonised  entreaty  that  the  young 
chief  and  his  sailors  will  take  him  on  board  their 
vessel.  Put  him  where  they  will,  "  in  hold,  or  stem,  or 
stern,"  he  cares  not,  so  he  may  see  once  more  his  father 
and  his  native  land.      It  will  be  a  noble  deed,  and 

"  Noble  souls 
Still  find  the  base  is  hurtful,  and  the  good 
Is  full  of  glory." 
A,  C.  vol.  X.  K 


146  SOPHOCLES. 

The  young  cliief  acts  his  assumed  part  welL  It  is 
easy  to  imagine,  from  the  frequent  breaks  in  the  appeal 
made  to  him  by  Philoctetes,  the  by-play  of  hesitation — 
now  turning  to  depart,  and  now  apparently  half  relent- 
ino- — Avith  which  he  listens  to  the  sufferer's  entreaties. 

O 

The  Chorus  are  moved  to  pity.  They  pray  their  young 
captain  to  assent.  They,  for  their  own  part,  are  quite 
willing  to  bear  the  inconvenience  of  such  a  passenger, 
though  his  grievous  affliction  will,  as  he  warns  them, 
make  him  no  very  pleasant  companion  on  ship-board. 
So  he  yields  to  this  double  solicitation,  and  Philoctetes 
turns  to  bid  a  pathetic  farewell  to  the  scene  of  his  long 
and  miserable  exile,  to  which  he  nevertheless  bears 
some  sort  of  affection,  when  two  men  are  seen  ap- 
proaching. They  are  two  of  the  ship-guard — one  of 
them  disguised  as  a  merchant,  who  profep^es  to  have 
just  landed  on  the  island,  and,  hearing  of  Xeoptole- 
mus's  presence  there,  has  come  to  bring  him  important 
news  from  the  coast  of  Troy,  whence  he  himself  has 
lately  sailed.  It  is,  in  fact,  an  additional  stratagem  of 
Ulysses,  brought  into  play  apparently  for  the  purpose 
of  hurrying  Philoctetes  on  board  the  vessel.  The  pre- 
tended merchant's  tale  is  that  the  Greeks,  in  their 
wrath  at  the  defection  of  K'eoptolemus,  have  despatched 
an  expedition  to  overtake  him  and  bring  him  back  by 
force.  Another  party  has  also  sailed  under  Ulysses  and 
Diomed,  in  quest  of  a  certain  Philoctetes,  without 
whom  the  Fates  have  declared  Troy  cannot  be  taken, 
and  whom  Ulysses  has  pledged  himself — and  offered 
his  own  head  as  a  forfeit  if  he  fails — to  bring  into  the 
Grecian  camp  either  by  force  or  by  persuasion.     Great 


PIIILOCTETES.  147 

is  the  apparent  dismay  of  the  stranger  at  being  told 
tliat  Philoctetes  stands  before  him  ;  and  great  tlie 
indignation  of  Pliiloctetes  to  hear  that  lie  is  to  l)e 
taken  now  to  Troy,  as  he  had  been  before  left  in 
Leinnos,  at  the  pleasure  of  his  detested  enemy  : — 

"  Wretch  that  I  am  !  this  villain,  most  accursed. 
Hath  he  then  sworn  to  lure  me  back  to  Greece  ? 
As  soon  shall  he  persuade  me,  when  no  more, 
Like  his  false  father,  to  return  to  earth."  * 

The  agent  of  Ulysses  is  far  too  discreet  to  under- 
stand the  sneer  at  his  master's  biith.  He  makes 
answer  sedately, — 

"  Of  this  I  nothing  know,  but  to  my  ship 
Depart.     The  gods  aright  direct  you  both." — (D.) 

The  object  of  this  particular  scene,  which  seems,  in 
point  of  fiict,  rather  to  throw  difficulties  in  the  Avay  of 
Neoptolemus  and  rouse  the  obstinacy  of  Philoctetes,  is 
by  no  means  easy  to  understand.  It  serves  to  compli- 
cate the  action,  and  that  is  all.  It  may  be  that  the 
poet  wishes  to  shoAV,  in  the  character  of  Ulysses,  that 
insolence  of  conscious  power  Avhich  does  not  care  so 
much  to  accomplish  its  object  easily,  as  to  enjoy  the 
discomfiture  of  a  weaker  opponent.  If  this  was  the 
intention,  and  if,  as  seems  possible,  Ulysses  is  all  the 
while  supposed  to  be  within  ear-shot  (as  he  certainly 
is  at  a  later  stage  of  the  action),  then  there  Avould  be 
produced  upon  the  audience,  as  is  not  uncommon  in 

*  Sisyphus,  who  (and  not  Laertes)  was  said  to  have  been  tlie 
real  father  of  Ulysses. 


148  SOPHOCLES. 

the  Attic  tragedies,  a  half-comic  effect  by  the  protest 
of  Philoctetes,  delivered,  as  it  were,  in  the  very  pre- 
sence of  the  man  between  whom  and  himself  he  is 
determined  to  put  the  wide  barrier  of  the  sea,  and  into 
whose  very  arms  he  is  thus  about  to  rush  in  his  eager 
haste  to  escape  him. 

■  The  -svind  is  against  them  as  yet,  says  Neoptolemus — 
they  must  wait  a  while.     ISTay,  replies  the  other, — 

"  All  winds  are  fair  to  him  who  flies  from  woe." 

Eut  before  he  embarks,  he  has  some  poor  treasures 
which  he  must  needs  get  together  and  take  with  him. 
A  herb  there  is  which  he  has  found  on  the  island, 
which  in  some  sort  soothes  the  anguish  of  his  wounded 
foot.  And — he  must  take  good  heed  that  he  leaves 
behind  no  one  of  the  fateful  arrows.  Then,  for  the 
first  time,  N"eoptolemus  seems  to  remark  the  bow  which 
he  carries.  Is  this  the  wondrous  bow  of  Hercules? 
May  he  be  allowed  to  handle  it  for  a  moment, — nay, 
to  print  a  reverent  kiss  upon  the  sacred  relic  of  so 
renowned  a  hero  1  And  while  the  sufferer,  leaning  on 
his  new-found  friend,  withdraws  into  his  cavern  to 
seek  what  he  requires,  the  Chorus,  as  they  tread  the 
stage  in  measured  time  to  the  accompanying  music, 
chant  an  ode  expressive  of  their  kindly  sympathy. 

And.  now  the  pair  reappear  upon  the  scene,  to  begin 
their  way  to  the  ship,  when  suddenly  Philoctetes  stops, 
and  utters  a  suppressed  cry.  One  of  those  paroxysms 
of  agony  which  his  wound  causes  him  from  time  to 
time  has  come  on  at  this  moment.  Dreading  the  effect 
which  it  may  have  upon  Neoptolemus  and  his  crew,  as 


PUILOCTETES.  149 

reminding  them  of  the  annoyance  Avhich  the  close 
companionship  of  such  a  wretch  is  sure  to  prove  to 
them  throughout  their  voyage,  he  strives  for  a  while  to 
conceal  liis  anguish.  " 'Tis  but  a  trifle" — "he  is 
better  again."  But  at  last  the  trial  is  too  much  for 
him.  Maddened  by  the  pain,  be  begs  of  his  friend  to 
draw  his  sword  and  smite  off  the  miserable  limb, — nay, 
if  it  cost  him  his  life,  the  deed  will  be  a  charity.  But 
no, — these  paroxysms  are  terrible  while  they  last,  but 
after  a  while,  having  run  their  course,  they  Avill  sub- 
side. He  cannot  bear  even  the  touch  of  the  hand 
which  Xeoptolemus  extends  to  support  him : — 

"  Nay,  not  so : 
But  take  my  bow  and  arrows,  which  but  now 
Thou  askedst  for,  and  keep  them  till  the  force 
Of  the  sharp  paiu  be  spent ;  yea,  guard  them  well, 
For  shimber  takes  me  when  this  evil  ends, 
Nor  can  it  cease  before  ;  but  thou  must  leave  me 
To  sleep  in  peace  ;  and  should  they  come  meanwhile 
Of  whom  we  have  heard,  by  all  the  gods  I  charge  thee 
Nor  with  thy  will,  nor  yet  against  it,  give 
These  things  to  them,  by  any  art  entrapped. 
Lest  thou  shouldst  deal  destruction  on  thyself 
And  me  who  am  thy  suppliant. 

Neop.  Take  good  heart. 

If  forethoiight  can  avail.     To  none  but  thee 
And  me  shall  they  be  given.     Hand  them  to  me. 
And  <rood  luck  come  with  them  ! 

Phil,  {giving  the  hoiv  and  arrows)  Lo  there,  my  son  ! 
Keceive  thou  them  ;  but  first  adore  the  power 
Whos;e  name  is  Jealousy,  that  they  may  prove 
To  thee  less  full  of  trouble  than  they  were 
To  me,  and  him  who  owned  them  ere  I  o^^^led. 

iS'eop.  So  be  it,  0  ye  gods,  to  both  of  us ; 


150  SOPHOCLES. 

And  may  Ave  have  a  fair  and  prosperous  voyage 
Where  God  thinks  right,  and  these  our  ships  are  hound  !" 

-(P-) 

Alas  !  the  prayer,  Philoctetes  fears,  will  be  in  vain. 
The  spasms  have  come  on  afresh ;  and  his  great  fear  is 
lust  his  new-found  friend  shall  desert  him  after  all : — 

"  And  wilt  thou  stay  ? 
Kenp.  Deem  that  beyond  all  doubt. 
Phil.  I  do  not  care  to  bind  thee  by  an  oath. 
A'cr>p.  I  may  not  go  from  hence  apart  from  thee. 
Phil.  Give  me  thy  hand  as  pledge. 
Neop.  I  give  it  thee 

As  pledge  of  our  remaining." — (P.) 

At  linigth — after  a  scene  of  physical  suffering  pro- 
tracted to  a  length  which  proves  that  the  taste  of  an 
Athenian  audience  for  sensation  was  as  keen  as  that  of 
any  modern  play-goer,  though  the  sensation  is  of  a  dif- 
ferent type — nature  is  exhausted,  and  the  sufferer  sinks 
into  a  death-like  sleep.  As  he  lies  there,  while  Neop- 
tolemus  retires  into  the  background,  the  Chorus  take 
up  their  chant  again.  It  is  in  part  an  invocation 
to  sleep,  mingled  with  hints  to  Neoptolemus  (whose 
instructions  from  Ulysses  they  seem  partly  to  under- 
stand, partly  only  to  suspect)  that  now,  while  he  lies 
thus  lielpless,  there  is  an  opportunity  to  carry  him 
off  bodily,  or  to  make  safe  prize  of  the  coveted  weapons 
of  Hercules  : — 

"  0  sleep  that  know'st  not  pain  ! 
O  sleep  that  know'st  not  care  ! 
Would  thou  mightst  come  with  blessed  balmy  air. 
And  blessing  long  remain, 


PUILOCTETES.  151 

And  from  his  eyes  ward  off  the  noontide  blaze, 

Now  full  upon  him  poured. 

Come  as  our  healer,  lord  ! 
And  tliou,  my  son,  look  well  to  all  thy  ways  ; 

What  next  demands  our  thought  ? 

What  now  must  needs  be  wrought  ? 

Thou  seest  him  ; — and  I  ask 

Why  we  delay  our  task  ; 
Occasion  that  still  holds  to  counsel  right 
With  quickest  speed  ajjpears  as  conqueror  in  the  fight.** 

They  continue  their  chant  in  this  strain  of  innuendo, 
while  Pliiloctetes  lies  stretched  in  the  sleep  of  physical 
exhaustion. 

The  conflict  between  the  better  nature  of  the  young 
chief  and  the  uncongenial  task  he  has  undertaken,  has 
begun  long  before  the  sufferer  awakes.  It  is  shown 
but  faintly  in  the  dialogue;  but  an  actor  who  threw 
liimself  into  the  part  would  no  doubt  express  it  very 
intelligibly  by  his  movements  and  gestures,  while  he 
watched  the  sleeper  and  listened  to  the  strains  of  the 
Chorus.  Loyalty  to  what  he  holds  to  be  the  public 
interest  of  the  Greek  cause,  the  overwhelming  import- 
ance of  the  capture  of  Troy,  the  renown  wliich  awaits 
him  personally  as  its  conqueror, — all  these  have  to  be 
weighed  in  the  scale  against  an  act  of  unquestionable 
treachery, — yet  after  all,  it  might  be  said,  a  treacliery 
rather  to  the  advantage  of  the  victim.  His  embar- 
rassment is  completed  by  the  words  of  Philoctetes, 
when  at  length  he  awakes  from  his  troubled  sleep, 
the  agony  subdued  for  a  while,  and  addresses  his 
deliverers,  as  he  thinks  them,  with  simple  gratitude 
aid  confidence  : — 


152  SOPHOCLES. 

"  Phil,  {ivalciag)  0  light  that  follows  sleep  !  0  help,  my 
thoughts 
Had  never  dared  to  hope  for  from  these  strangers  ! 
For  never  had  I  dreamt,  O  boy,  that  thou 
With  such  true  pity  wouldst  endure  to  hear 
All  these  my  sorrows,  and  remain  and  lielp. 
The  Atreidse  ne'er  had  heart  to  bear  with  them 
As  well  as  thou  hast  borne.     Brave  generals  they ! 
But  thou,  my  son,  who  art  of  noble  heart. 
And  sprung  from  noble-hearted  ones,  hast  made 
But  light  of  all."— (P.) 

Philoctetes  begs  that  they  may  sail  at  once.  And 
Keoptolemus  assists  him  to  rise  and  move  in  the 
direction  of  the  sliip.  But  suddenly  the  young  man 
stops;  he  can  endure  to  keep  up  this  deception  no 
lontrer. 


'o^ 


**  Neop.  O  heavens  !  what  now  remains  for  me  to  do  ? 

Fail.  What  ails  thee,  O  my  son  ?  ■\^'hat  words  are  these  ? 

Neop.  I  know  not  how  to  speak  my  sore  distress. 

Fhil.  Distress  from  what  ?    Speak  not  such  words,  my 
son. 

Neap.  And  yet  in  that  calamity  I  stand 

Pliil.  It  cannot  be  my  wound's  foul  noisomenesa 
Hath  made  thee  loath  to  take  me  in  thy  ship  ? 

Neop.  All  things  are  noisome  when  a  man  deserts 
His  own  true  self,  and  does  what  is  not  meet. 

Pliil.  But  thou,  at  least,  nor  doest  aught  nor  say'st, 
Unworthy  of  thy  father's  soul,  when  thou 
Dost  help  a  man  right  honest. 

Neop.  I  shall  seem 

Basest  of  men.     Long  since  this  tortured  me." — (P.) 

At  length  he  tells  Philoctetes  the  truth, — he  is  com- 
niissioned  to  carry  him  to  Troy.     Then  Philoctetes 


PIIILOCTETES.  153 

breaks  out  into  very  natural  indignation,  and  demands 
liis  weapons  back.  "  That  may  not  be,"  says  Neop- 
tolemus.  His  victim's  wratli,  mingled  with  an  unwil- 
lingness to  believe  in  such  treachery  under  so  fair  an 
outsiie  seeming,  is  expressed  in  one  of  the  finest  jias- 
sages  in  the  play  : — 

"  Thou  loathed  inventor  of  atrocious  fraud, 
What  hast  thou  done — how  wronged  my  easy  faith  t 
Doth  it  not  shame  tliee  to  behokl  me  thus, 
A  suitor  and  a  suppliant,  wretch,  to  thee  ? 
Stealing  my  bow,  of  life  thou  hast  bereft  me. 
Restore,  I  praj-  thee,  0  my  son,  restore  it ! 
By  thine  ancestral  gods,  take  not  my  life  ! 
Wretch  that  I  am,  he  deigns  not  e'en  reply, 
But  still  looks  backward,  as  resolved  to  spurn  me. 
Ye  ports,  ye  beetling  crags,  ye  haunts  obscure 
Of  mountain-beasts,  ye  wild  and  broken  rocks, 
To  you  I  mourn,  for  I  have  none  beside  ! 
To  you,  who  oft  have  heard  me,  tell  the  WTongs, 
The  cruel  deeds  Achilles'  son  hath  wroiinht ! 
Pledged  to  convey  me  home,  he  sails  to  Troy ; 
Plighting  his  hand  in  faith,  he  meanly  steals 
My  bow,  the  sacred  arms  of  Jove's  great  son, 
And  would  display  them  to  the  Grecian  host. 
By  force  he  takes  me,  as  some  vigorous  chief, 
Nor  knows  his  triumph  is  achieved  o'er  one 
Long  helpless  as  the  dead — a  shadowy  cloud — 
An  empty  phantom.     In  my  hour  of  might 
He  ne'er  had  seized  me  thus,  since,  in  my  ills, 
He  but  by  fraud  entrapped  me.     I  am  now 
Deceived  to  my  despair.     What  shall  I  do  ? — 
Ah  !  yet  restore  them,  be  again  thyself 
What  dost  thou  say  ? — Yet  silent  ? — Then  I  perish. 
Thou  double  portal  of  the  rock,  again 


154  SOPHOCLES. 

I  enter  thee,  of  arms,  of  life,  deprived. 

But  I  must  pine  forsaken  in  the  cave  ; 

Nor  winged  bird,  nor  mountain-ranging  beast, 

Shall  these  good  darts  bring  down.     I  yield  in  death 

To  those  a  banquet,  who  supplied  my  own. 

I  will  not  curse  thee,  ere  I  learn  if  yet 

Thou  wUt  relent — if  not,  all  evil  blast  thee  ! " — (D.) 

Neoptolemus  makes  a  motion  to  restore  the  tow, 
when  Ulysses  (who,  we  must  suppose,  has  been  a 
listener  to  at  least  the  latter  portion  of  the  dialogue) 
rushes  in  between  them  : — 

"  Ulys.  What  woiildst  thou  do, 

0  vilest  of  mankind  1     Wilt  thou  not  hence, 
The  sacred  anns  resigning  to  my  hand  ? 

Phil.  Ha  !  who  is  this  ?     Ulysses  do  T  hear  1 

Ulys.  Ay,  I  who  stand  before  thee  am  Ulysses. 

Phil.  0,  I  am  sold,  undone  !     This  is  the  wretch 
Who  snared  and  hath  despoiled  me  of  mine  arms. 

Ult/s.  'Tis  I,  in  sooth — none  else.     I  own  the  deed. 

Phil.  Restore,  give  back  the  arms  to  me,  my  son  ! 

Ulys.  This,  did  he  wish,  he  would  not  dare  to  grant. 
But  thou  must  hence  with  us,  or  those  around 
By  force  must  drag  thee." — (D.) 

f 
In  vain  does  the  sufferer  appeal  to  Heaven  against 

such  wrong  ;  it  is  Heaven,  says  Ulysses,  whose  will  he 
and  Neoptolemus  are  obeying  in  forcing  him  to  Troy. 
Then  he  will  throw  himself  headlong  from  the  rock, 
and  end  his  misery  at  once,  rather  than  be  thus  dis- 
graced. But  he  is  seized  and  overpowered  by  order 
of  Ulysses,  Avho  listens  with  a  calm  composure  to  the 


PHILOCTETES.  155 

bitter  invectives  wliich  his  prisoner  hurls  at  liim. 
When  Philoctetes  at  last  pauses  in  his  denunciation, 
Ulysses  replies  in  measured  words  which  are  a 
perfect  index  to  his  character,  as  drawn  by  the 
poet : — 

"  I  might  say  much  in  answer  to  his  words, 
If  there  were  time.     Now  this  one  word  I  speak  : 
Where  men  like  this  are  wanted,  such  am  I  ; 
But  when  the  time  for  good  and  just  men  calls, 
Thou  couldst  not  find  a  godlier  man  than  me. 
In  every  case  it  is  my  bent  to  win. 
Except  with  thee.     To  thee  of  mine  own  will 
I  yield  the  victory.     Ho,  leave  him  there  ! 
Lay  no  hand  on  him, — let  him  here  remain. 
With  these  thy  arms,  we  have  no  need  of  thee  : 
Teucros  is  with  us,  skilled  in  this  thine  art ; 
And  I,  too,  boast  that  I,  not  less  than  thou. 
This  bow  can  handle,  with  my  hand  shoot  straight ; 
What  need  we  thee  1     In  Lenmos  walk  at  will. 
And  let  us  go.     And  they  perchance  will  give 
As  prize  to  me  what  rightly  thou  mightst  claim." — (P.) 

The  character  of  Ulysses  is  drawn  in  stronger  and 
less  favourable  colours  by  the  dramatist  than  as  he 
appears  in  either  of  the  Homeric  poems.  There  is  a 
cold  cruelty  in  his  treatment  of  Philoctetes,  from  first 
to  last,  which  does  not  characterise  him  in  either  the 
Iliad  or  Odyssey.  It  is  true  that  he  is  servin"  no 
selfish  end  ;  it  is  in  the  cause  of  Greece  that  he  under- 
takes this  commission,  as  it  was  in  the  same  interest 
(we  must  suppose)  that  he  advised  the  desertion  of 
Philoctetes  at  Lemnos.  AYe  must  not  wonder  that, 
like  many  diplomatists,  he  is  little  scrupulous  as  to 


156  SOPEOCLES. 

means.     But  he  seems  almost  to  revel  in  the  odious- 
ness  of  his  self-imposed  duty. 

He  withdraws  again  from  the  scene,  taking  with  him 
the  reluctant  and  repentant  Neoptolemixs,  who  is  half 
incliued  to  listen  to  the  appeal  of  their  victim.  The 
crew,  by  Keoptolemus's  permission,  remain,  and  strive 
to  console  the  sufferer,  who  laments  his  raiserahle  fate 
in  strains  to  which  the  Chorus  make  such  reply  as  they 
can  : — 

"  Ah  me  !  upon  the  shore, 

Where  the  wild  waters  roar. 

He  sits  and  laughs  at  me, 

And  tosseth  in  his  hand 

What  cheered  my  misery. 
What  ne'er  till  now  another  might  command. 

0  how  most  dear  to  me. 

Torn  from  these  hands  of  mine, 

If  thou  hast  sense  to  see. 

Thou  lookest  piteously 

At  this  poor  mate  of  thine, 

The  friend  of  Heracles, 
Who  never  more  shall  wield  thee  as  of  old  ; 

And  thou,  full  ill  at  ease. 
Art  bent  by  hands  of  one  for  mischief  bold, 

All  shameful  deeds  beholding, 

Deeds  of  fierce  wrath  and  hate, 
And  thousand  evils  from  base  thoughts  unfolding 
Which  none  till  now  had  ever  dared  to  perpetrate." 

-(P-) 

But  they  are  interrupted  by  the  sudden  return  of 
Neoptolemus,  in  high  dispute  with  Ulysses,  who  is 
trying  to  hold  him  back.  The  young  chief  has  made 
up  his  mind.     He  will  do  the  right,  come  what  may. 


PHILOLTETES.  157 

The  glory  of  taking  Troy  will  be  no  compensation  for 
the  loss  of  self-respect.  He  Avill  at  once  give  back  the 
weapons  of  Hercules.  In  vain  Ulysses  threatens  hiin 
with  the  vengeance  of  the  allied  Greeks  ;  in  vain — or 
worse  than  in  vain — he  lavs  his  hand  significant] v 
upon  his  sword.  The  young  chief  replies  to  the  threat 
by  a  fierce  grasp  of  the  hilt  of  his  own  weapon ;  and 
Ulysses,  too  wary  to  involve  himself  in  a  dangerous 
and  discreditable  brawl,  contents  himself  with  an  ap- 
peal to  the  Greeks  in  council.  Neoptolemus  will  not 
spare  liim  a  natural  sarcasm  on  his  discretion  : — 

"  Thou  liast  shown  prudence  ;  be  as  prudent  ever, 
And  thou  mayest  chance  to  keep  thyself  from  harm," 

But  Ulysses,  as  he  turns  off  in  disgust,  either  does  not 
hear,  or  affects  not  to  hear,  the  taunt.  Then  the  other 
calls  Philoctetes  out  of  his  cave,  and  restores  to  him 
the  weapons.  Ulj'sses  comes  forward  again,  and  loudly 
protests  against  such  weakness  ;  but  Philoctetes,  once 
more  master  of  his  bow,  vengefully  prepares  to  launch 
an  arrow  at  his  enemy,  when  l^eoptolemus  stays  his 
hand.  Once  more  the  latter  tries  to  iirge  upon  him  to 
go  with  them  to  Troy  of  his  own  free  will,  and  so  reap 
the  glories  wdiich  await  him  there  ;  but  arguments  on 
this  point  have  no  avail,  and  he  prepares  to  redeem 
his  pledge  to  carry  the  exile  home. 

The  perplexity  is  solved  by  an  expedient  allowable 
in  the  Greek  drama,  though  it  would  be  held  inartistic 
in  our  own.  Hercules  himself  intervenes.  The  hero- 
god  appears  suddenly  in  mid-air  (and  we  have  reason  to 
believe  Mie  scenic  a])pliances  were  complete  enough  for 


158  SOPHOCLES. 

such  appearance  to  ha  higlily  effective),  and  stands  "before 
tlie  mortal  captains  radiant  in  the  glories  of  Olympus. 
Such  a  visitor  is,  after  all,  not  a  bolder  appeal  to  the 
supernatural  than  tlie  ghost  in  Hamlet ;  and  perhaps 
the  half- imaginative  belief  of  the  educated  portion 
of  an  Athenian  audience  in  the  continual  existence, 
in  some  higher  state,  of  their  national  heroes,  miglit 
correspond  pretty  nearly  to  the  beKef  in  ghosts  which 
wo;ild  have  been  found  amongst  the  same  class  of 
Englishmen  in  Shakspeare's  day.  It  would  be  suffi- 
cient— indeed,  it  is  practically  sufficient  still — for  the 
sentiment  of  the  tragedy.  The  tableau  on  the  stage 
was  no  doubt  highly  effective  when  Hercules,  with  a 
commanding  gesture,  arrests  the  steps  of  Philoctetes  as 
he  is  moving  off : — 

"  Not  yet,  0  son  of  Pceas,  ere  once  more 
Our  accents  reach  thine  ear. 
Know  'tis  the  voice  of  Hercules  tliou  hearest, 
His  form  tliine  eyes  behold. 
To  watch  thy  fortunes  I  awhile  ha,ve  left 
My  own  celestial  seat. 

That  Jove's  almighty  mandate  I  may  breathe. 
And  in  his  name  forbid  thy  purposed  course." 

—(Dale  ) 

He  tells  his  friend  of  the  glory  which  yet  awaits  him, 
— how  he  shall  be  healed  of  his  wound,  shall  slay 
Paris  Avith  one  of  the  fateful  arrows,  and  be  judged  the 
bravest  of  the  Greek  host.  And  when  Troy  has  falleii  by 
his  hands  and  those  of  Neoptolemus,  let  them  not  for- 
get, in  the  hour  of  their  triumph,  to  reverence  the  gods  ; 
for  that  alone  oan  bring  lasting  happiness  to  mortals. 


PHILOCTETES.  159 

Philoctetes  cannot  resist  the  voice  of  the  gi'eat  liero 
whom  he  still  loves  and  honours.  Pie  accompanies 
Neoptolemus  to  the  ship;  but  before  they  go,  he 
chants  his  last  words  of  farewell  to  the  scene  of  his 
long  banishment : — 

"  Come,  then,  and  let  us  bid  farewell 
To  this  lone  island  where  I  dwell : 
Farewell,  0  home  that  still  didst  keep 
Due  vigil  o'er  me  in  my  sleep ; 
Ye  nymphs  by  stream  or  wood  that  roam ; 
Thou  mighty  voice  of  ocean's  foam, 
Where  oftentimes  my  head  was  wet 
With  drivings  of  the  South  wind's  fret ; 
And  oft  the  mount  that  Hermes  owns 
Sent  forth  its  answer  to  my  gi'oans, 
T]:e  wailing  loud  as  echo  given 
To  me  by  tempest-storms  sore  driven; 
And  ye,  0  fountains  clear  and  cool, 
Thou  Lykian  well,  the  wolves'  own  pool — 
We  leave  you,  yea,  we  leave  at  last, 
Though  small  our  hope  in  long  years  past: 
Farewell,  0  plain  of  Lemnos'  isle, 
Aror.nd  whose  coasts  the  bright  waves  smile. 
Send  me  with  prosperous  voyage  and  fair 
Where  the  great  Destinies  may  bear. 
Counsels  of  friends,  and  God  supreme  in  Heaven 
Who  all  this  lut  of  ours  hath  well  and  wisely  given." 

-(P.) 

This  tragedy  has  been  highly  praised  both  by  Frencb 
and  by  English  critics,  and  it  has  undoubtedly  tlie 
merit  of  being  simple  and  natural,  though  the  interest 
is  of  a  weaker  quality  than  in  most  of  the  plays  of 
Sophocles,      The   character   of  ITeoptolemus   in   well 


160  SOPHOCLES. 

drawn  ;  and  the  struggles  "between  interest  and  duty — - 
or  rather  between  what  seem  to  him  two  conflicting 
duties — are  interesting,  if  not  highly  tragic.  But  the 
play  has  one  prominent  feature  which  mars  the  whole 
effect  to  our  English  taste,  '^o  man  can  be  a  hero,  to 
our  notions,  whose  sufferings  are  wholly  physical ;  and 
far  less  one  who  demands  our  sympathies  for  such 
sufferings  by  physical  expressions  of  pain.  Upon  a 
Greek  audience,  no  doubt,  the  effect  was  different. 
The  enjoyment  of  life  was  very  keen  among  the  Athen- 
ians :  they  also  felt  bodily  pain  more  keenly,  with 
their  sensitive  organisations,  than  we  do,  and  they 
certainly  expressed  their  feelings  with  far  less  reticence. 
For  them,  the  diseased  foot,  and  the  cries  of  agony  to 
which  it  gives  occasion,  had  possibly  a  real  tragic 
interest.  To  us  it  is  not  so.  All  the  ingenuity  and 
ability  of  critics  fails  to  make  such  a  subject  anything 
but  distasteful  to  an  ordinary  English  mind.  "We 
almost  forgive  the  Greeks  for  leaving  PhOoctetes  be- 
hind, if  he  was  always  shrieking  and  bemoaning  him- 
self after  the  fashion  assigned  to  him  in  the  play.  It 
is  one  of  the  hardest  things  connected  Avith  continued 
bodily  suffering,  when  it  finds  vent  in  audible  groans 
and  complaints,  that  instead  of  rousing  the  sympathies 
of  those  in  attendance  on  the  sufferer,  it  is  too  apt  to 
dull  and  weary  them.  Cries  and  complaints  may  be 
unavoidable,  but  to  our  notions  they  are  always  un- 
dignified and  unmanly.  Our  cold  and  stern  temper 
demands  that  pain  be  borne  in  silence  —  ignored 
altogether,  so  far  as  possible.  Its  audible  expressions 
belong  with  us  to  comedy,  not  to  tragedy.     Even  in 


PUILOCTETES.  161 

the  Iliad,  we  are  not  touched  with  the  dying  groans 
of  the  heroes.  Our  ideal  hero  is  mute  in  sufFerins — 
he  must  have  more  of  the  nature  of  the  Eoman  wolf- 
cub — 

"  Hft  dies  in  silence,  biting  hard, 
Amid  the  dying  hounds," 

But  in  this  respect,  the  Philoctetes  of  Sophocles  is 
not  only  at  variance  with  modern  tastes  and  sympa- 
thies ;  it  stands  also  in  strong  contrast  with  an  earlier 
Greek  tragedy  of  a  severer  type,  in  which  the  hero  is 
also  represented  in  the  extremity  of  physical  suffering 
— the  Prometheus  of  ^schylus.  The  Titan  is  brought 
upon  the  stage  to  be  fastened  to  his  rock,  there  to 
waste  away  for  long  years  in  sufferings  compared  with 
which  those  of  Philoctetes  are  but  ordinary  :  the  ada- 
mantine rivets  are  driven  through  his  chest,  but  he 
utters  no  cry  of  physical  anguish.  iN^ay,  so  long  as  lus 
tormentors  are  present,  he  is  mute  altogether.  When 
he  utters  his  grand  appeal  to  Earth,  and.  Sky,  and 
Sea, — it  is  against  the  injustice  of  his  doom,  rather 
than  the  bitterness  of  the  torture.  He  launches  de- 
fiance against  his  torturer,  not  complaints.  Therefore, 
even  across  the  gulf  of  centuries,  Ave  icel  almost  as  an 
Athenian  audience  felt  the  grandeur  of  the  conception. 
It  is  true  enough,  as  has  been  said,  that  Sophocles  is 
far  more  human  in  his  tragic  pathos  than  the  elder 
poet ;  but  there  are  phases  of  humanity,  intensely 
natural,  which  are  yet  no  fit  subjects  for  dramatic 
representation ;  and  it  is  surely  not  a  decline  but  a 
development  of  critical  taste,  Avhich  reckons  physical 
pain  as  one  of  them. 

A.  c.  vol.  X.  L 


CHAPTER  yni 


ELECTRA. 


In  this  drama  Sophocles  has  selected  a  portion  of 
the  same  story  which  formed  the  subject  of  the  famous 
trilogy  of  xEschylus.  The  Electra  is  simply  the  return 
of  Orestes,  and  the  vengeance  wliich  he  takes  on 
Clytemnestra  and  ^gisthus.  Ey  both  poets  J^xi§_  act 
of  vengeance  is  elevated  to  a  religious  duty.  The  gods 
above  and  the  shades  of  the  dead  below  demand  that 
a  "  foul  unnatural  murder  "  shall  not  go  unpunished. 
Accordingly  Orestes  never  swerves  for  a  moment  from 
his  deadly  purpose.  Pity  and  tenderness  have  no 
place  in  his  breast,  nor  do  we  ever  find  him  reasoning 
with  himself  after  the  manner  of  Hamlet — 

"  O  heart,  lose  not  thy  nature  ;  let  not  ever 
The  soul  of  Nero  enter  this  firm  bosom ; 
Let  me  be  cruel,  not  unnatural ; 
I  will  speak  daggers,  but  will  use  none."* 

Once   more — as   in  the   trilogy  of  ^Eschylus — the 
scene  is  the  royal  palace  of  the  Pelopidie,  "rich  in 

*  Hamlet,  act  iii.  sc.  3. 


ELECTRA.  163 

gold  and  rich  in  slaugliter,"  as  Electra  describes  it, 
fronted  by  the  stately  "  Gate  of  Lions  "  which  tlien 
guarded  the  statne  of  Apollo,  and  built  in  that  stupen- 
dous Cyclopajan  style  which  still  impresses  every  tra- 
veller. But  Agatharchus,  or  Avhatever  artist  Sophocles 
employed,  has  given  us  on  this  occasion  more  than  the 
usual  architectural  background.  There  is  the  grove  of 
lo,  "  the  tormented  wanderer,"  and  the  market-place 
sacred  to  Apollo  as  the  "Wolf-god;"  on  the  left  is 
the  famous  temple  of  Juno,  while  in  the  far  distance 
are  seen  the  towers  of  Argos.*  The  time  is  early  morn- 
ing in  Athens  as  well  as  on  the  stage,  and  it  is  such 
a  morning  as  Chaucer  would  have  loved,  with  the  hills> 
and  greenwood  bright  and  fresh  in  the  "sunlight,  as  one 
of  the  speakers  describes  it, — • 

"  "Which  wakes  the  birds  to  tune  their  matin  song, 
And  star-decked  night's  dark  shadows  flee  away. — (P.) 

Two  young  men  enter.  They  are  the  famous  friends, 
v\diose  names,  like  those  of  David  and  Jonathan,  have 
consecrated  all  later  friendships, — Orestes  and  Pylades, 
With  them  comes  an  old  and  faithful  servant  (perhaps 
"  the  Avatchman  "  of  ^Eschylus's  '  Agamemnon  '),  who 
had  saved  the  young  Orestes  at  the  time  of  his  father's 
murder,  had  reared  him  up  to  manhood,  and  is  now 

*  Mr  Jebb  quotes  Clark's  Peloponnesus  (p.  72),  with  refer- 
ence to  the  famous  historic  localities  which  Sophocles  has  thuh 
broui^ht  together  in  one  picture,  irrespectively  of  cli.  tance,  and 
which  Clark  compares  with  a  stage  direction  in  Victor  Hugo's 
play  of  'Marie  Tudor.'  "Palais  de  Eichmond  :  dans  le  fond 
k  gauche  I'Eglise  de  Westminster,  a  droitela  Tour  de  Loudres." 
— Jebb's  Electra,  p.  3. 


164  SOPHOCLES. 

guiding  liim  back,  after  his  long  exile,  to  the  famiKar 
scenes  of  Argolis.  Orestes  lias  returned  to  Mycense 
(as  he  tells  his  friends  and  the  audience)  on  a  holy 
mission  of  vengeance,  consecrated  by  Apollo  himself; 
but  in  order  to  gain  his  ends  he  must  use  a  pious  fraud. 
His  old  attendant  must  enter  the  palace,  and  represent 
himself  as  a  Phocian  stranger,  sent  by  an  old  friend 
of  the  family  : — 

"  And  tell  thorn — yea,  and  add  a  solemn  oath — 
That  some  fell  fate  has  brought  Orestes'  death 
In  Pythian  games,  from  out  the  whirling  car 
Rolled  headlong  to  the  earth.     This  tale  tell  thou ; 
And  we,  first  honouring  my  father's  grave, 
As  the  God  bade  us,  with  libations  pure 
And  tresses  from  our  brow,  will  then  come  back. 
Bearing  the  urn  well  wrought  with  sides  of  bronze, 
Which,  thou  know'st  well,  'mid  yonder  shrubs  lies  hid, 
That  we  with  crafty  words  may  bring  to  them 
The  pleasant  news  that  my  poor  frame  is  gone, 
Consumed  with  fire,  to  dust  and  ashes  turned. 

So  I,  from  out  this  rumour  of  my  death, 
Shall,  like  a  meteor,  blaze  upon  my  foes." — (P.) 

Then  the  three  retire,  for  the  purpose  of  pouring  a 
libation  at  Agamemnon's  grave.  Py lades,  it  should 
be  observed,  owing  to  the  strict  rule  of  the  Athenian 
drama  limiting  the  speakers  on  the  stage  to  three, 
never  takes  part  in  the  dialogue  throughout  the  play. 

Even  before  they  left  the  stage,  they  had  heard  the 
wailing  of  women  from  the  palace ;  and  now  there 
issues  from  the  gates  Electra,  the  sister  of  Orestes, 


ELECTRA.  105 

meanly  clad  and  with  dishevelled  hair,  follr)wed  by  a 
train  of  Argive  maidens.  Her  history  had  been  a  sad 
one.  Years  had  passed  aAvay  since  that  day  of  horror, 
Avhen  her  father  had  been  cut  off  in  his  glory — not 
slain  by  the  sword  on  the  battle-field,  but  felled  by 
the  axe  of  iEgisthus,  "  as  the  woodman  fells  the  oak- 
tree  in  the  forest."  Years  had  passed  away,  but  each 
year  had  only  imbittered  the  resentment  of  Electra, 
and  turned  to  gall  all  the  sweetness  of  her  woman's 
nature.  She  can  neither  tear  from  her  heart  the  re- 
membrance of  that  deed  of  blood,  nor  forgive  those 
who  wrought  it.  It  had  needed  no  message  from  the 
grave,  no  spirit  returned  from  limbo,  to  keep  alive  this 
memory.  Always  before  her  was  the  same  repulsive 
contrast  which  tortured  the  keener  sensibilities  of 
Hamlet, — the  cowardly  ^gisthus,  sitting  in  the  dead 
man's  place,  and  receiving  the  caresses  of  the  perjured 
wife ;  while  the  guilty  pair  had  seemed  to  glory  in 
their  shame, — the  one  pouring  libations  on  the  very 
hearth  where  the  king  had  fallen,  and  the  other,  with 
an  impious  and  unnatural  joy,  celebrating  each  month 
the  day  of  her  husband's  murder,  as  though  it  were  a 
religious  festival,  with  sacrifices  and  solemn  dances. 
MeanwhUe,  the  portion  of  Electra  had  been  mockery 
and  insult ;  for  her  proud  spirit  had  scorned  such 
submission  as  her  more  facile  sister  Chrysothemis  had 
been  ready  to  give.  She  had  been  a  living  protest 
against  the  sin  of  Clytemnestra  and  ^gisthus ;  her 
incessant  grief  had  provoked  their  hatred,  and  this 
hatred  had  found  its  vent  in  bitter  and  continual  re- 


IGG  SOPHOCLES. 

proach.  Day  and  night,  as  she  tells  the  Chorus,  she 
had  been  mourning  over  the  ruin  of  her  race  in  the 
plaintive  strains  of  the  niglitingale,  whose  note  was 
proverbial  among  the  Greeks  for  a  never-ending  grief; 
and  she  had  been  rated  by  her  mother  much  in  the 
same  style  as  Hamlet  is  lectured  by  his  uncle : — 

"  To  persevere 
In  obstinate  condolement  is  a  course 
Of  impious  stubbornness. 

'Tis  a  fault  to  heaven, 
A  fault  against  the  dead,  a  fault  to  nature  ; 
To  reason  most  absurd  ;  whose  common  theme 
Is  death  of  fathers."  * 

Then,  again,  these  tears  had  been  followed  by  a 
sterner  feeling,  and  soon 

"  Vengeance,  deep-brooding  o'er  the  slain, 
Had  locked  the  source  of  softer  woe." 

She  had  cherished  the  thought  of  a  day  of  retribu- 
tion, and  had  implored  all  the  gods  of  the  lower  world 
not  to  overlook  the  sheddiug  of  innocent  blood,  or  to 
allow  "  the  guile  which  devised  and  the  lust  which 
struck  the  blow"  to  go  for  long  unpunished.  But 
years  had  passed,  and  still  Orestes,  for  whose  coming 
she  had  prayed,  came  not ;  and  Electra,  in  her  despair, 
had  begun  to  question  the  justice  of  those  careless  gods 
who  allowed  the  guilty  to  flourish  in  their  sin,  and 
murder  to  go  unavenged — 

"For  if  the  dull  earth  cover  thus  tlie  blood 
Of  him  who  basely  died, 

*  Hamlet,  act  i.  sc.  2. 


ELECTRA.  167 

And  they  who  wrouglit  his  fall 

Repay  not  life  for  life  ; — 

Then  perish  shame  for  aye, 

And  piety  be  banished  from  mankind  ! " — (D.) 

The  Chorus  vainly  try  to  comfort  her.  No  tears  or 
prayers,  they  say,  can  recall  the  dead  from  "  the  lake 
of  darkness."  Let  her  trust  to  Time,  that  "  calm  and 
patient  deity,"  to  bring  her  brother  home  at  last. 

Then  there  enters  to  her  "  bright  Chrysothemis  with 
golden  hair,"  *  bearing  funeral  offerings.  The  scene  be- 
tween the  sisters  recalls  a  similar  one  in  a  former  play,  with 
the  dilierence  that  here  the  characters  are  more  strongly 
drawn.  Electra  is  cast  in  a  harsher  and  sterner  mould 
than  her  counterpart,  Antigone,  for  it  is  hatred  rather 
than  love  which  hardens  her  rcsolj^tion.  Chrysothemis, 
again,  is  more~deliDerateJy  seiiish  than  Ismene.  "  She 
should  have  been  the  ally,  but  is  only  the  temptress  of 
her  sister,  a  weaker  Goneril  or  Eegan,  serving  as  a  foil 
to  a  more  masculine  Cordelia."  t  Electra  cannot  con- 
ceal her  scoin  and  indignation  at  this  unworthy  daugh- 
ter of  a  king,  who  attempts  to  justify  her  baseness,  and 
whose  cowardly  spirit  can  endure  to  sit  at  the  same 
table  with  her  father's  murderers.  For  her  own  part, 
she  prefers  the  isolation  of  a  slave  to  the  gifts  and 
delicacies  which  Chrysothemis  accepts  at  such  hands. 

"  Loin  d'eux,  h,  ces  festins,  lenr  esclave  prefere 
Le  pain  de  la  pitid  qu'on  jette  i  sa  niis^re, 
A  leur  table  insolente  allez  courber  le  front ; 
Flattez  les  meurtriei-s,  mes  pleurs  me  suffiront. 

•  Iliad,  ix.  145  (Pope).  f  Jebb's  Ajax,  p.  3i,  note. 


168  SOPHOCLES. 

Des  pleurs  sont  mes  tr^sors,  des  pleurs  ma  nourriture, 
lis  ne  me  verront  pas  outrageant  la  nature, 
A  mon  pere  infidele,  indigne  de  mon  nom, 
Boire  avec  eux  dans  I'or  le  sang  d' Agamemnon."* 

Chrysothemis  is  too  'well  accustomed  to  her  sister's 
reproaches  to  attempt  any  further  justification.  In 
reply,  she  tells  her  the  strange  mission  on  which  she 
has  now  come  from  the  palace.  On  the  previous  night 
Clytemnestra  had  dreamed  a  dream,  in  which  she  had 
seen  her  husband,  tall  and  majestic  as  in  his  lifetime, 
and  carrying  the  sceptre  which  had  descended  from 
prince  to  prince  in  the  dynasty  of  Argos,t  and  was 
now  wielded  by  the  murderer  vEgisthus.  In  her  vision, 
Clytemnestra  sees  him  plant  this  sceptre  in  the  hearth 
of  his  palace,  and  there  it  had  seemed  to  take  root 
downwards  and  bear  fruit  upwards,  spreading  forth 
into  boughs  and  branches,  and  overshadowing  all  My- 
cenge.  So  terribly  significant  had  been  this  vision  of 
the  night,  and  so  accordant  with  the  restless  dread  of 
her  son's  return  which  has  haunted  the  guilty  woman, 

*  Chenier's  Electre,  act  i.  sc.  3.     (Quoted  by  M.  Patin.) 
+  Homer  gives  us  the  history  of  this  sceptre : — 

"  His  royal  staff,  the  work  of  Vulcan's  art, 
Which  Vulcan  to  the  son  of  Saturn  gave. 
To  Hermes  lie,  the  heavenly  messeiiger; 
Hennes  to  Pelops,  matchless  charioteer; 
Pelops  to  Atreus  ;  Atreus  at  his  death 
Bequeathed  it  to  Thyestes,  wealthy  lord 
Of  num'rous  herds  ;  to  Agamemnon  last 
Thyestes  left  it — token  of  his  sway 
O'er  all  the  Argive  coast  and  neighbouring  isles." 

—Iliad,  ii.  100  (Loi'l  Derby). 


ELECTRA.  1G9 

that  after  risiiipj  early  in  the  morning,  and  telling  her 
dream  to  the  Sun-god,  she  had  sent  Chrysothcniis  to 
carry  libations  to  the  tomb  of  Agamemnon,  in  the  hope 
of  appeasing  the  manes  of  the  murdered  king. 

Electra  can  hardly  restrain  the  fiery  wrath  ■which 
consumes  her,  as  she  hears  of  what  she  considers  a 
fresh  act  of  impious  effrontery  on  the  part  of  Clytem- 
nestra.  Her  sister  must  never  insult  the  dead  by  pre- 
senting these  offerings  from  the  guilty  wife  : — • 

"  Cast  them  forth 
To  the  wild  winds,  or  hide  them  in  the  earth 
Deep,  deep  ;  that  never  to  my  father's  tomb 
The  accursed  thing  may  reach  ;  but  when  she  dies, 
Lie  hid  in  earth  to  grace  her  sepulchre. 
For  had  she  not  been  formed  of  all  her  sex 
The  most  abandoned,  never  had  she  crowned 
These  loathed  libations  to  the  man  she  slew. 
Tliink'st  thou  the  dead  entombed  could  e'er  receive 
In  friendly  mood  such  obsequies  from  her 
By  whom  he  fell  dishonoured,  like  a  foe, 
Wliile  on  her  mangled  victim's  head  she  wijjed 
His  blood  for  expiation  ? " — (D.) 

Let  her  rather  offer  at  her  father's  tomb  locks  of 
hair  cut  from  his  daughters'  heads,  accompanied  by  a 
prayer  that  the  son  may  speedily  return  to  avenge  his 
death.  Chrysothemis  assents,  but  begs  her  sister  to 
keep  her  counsel. 

Then  follows  a  noble  choral  ode — almost  rising  to 
the  grandeur  of  vEsehylus.  The  dream  which  had 
terrified  the  queen  animates  the  dying  hopes  of  the 


170  SOPHOCLES. 

Argive  maidens.  Something  in  tlieir  hearts  tells  them 
that  the  day  of  vengeance  is  nigh  at  hand.  Neither 
the  spirit  of  the  murdered  man,  nor  the  axe  which 
struck  that  felon  stroke,  "  though  dimmed,  by  the  rust 
of  years,"  has  ever  forgotten  the  deed  of  blood. 
They  can  already  see  the  shadow — nay,  they  can 
almost  feel  the  breath  and  hear  tlie  approaching  tramp 
— of  the  "  brazen-footed  fury  with  many  hands  and 
feet."  And  then  their  thoughts  revert  to  the  fountain- 
head  of  all  these  troubles — the  curse  invoked  on  the 
treaclierous  Pelops  by  Myrtilus,  as  he  was  "dashed 
headlong  from  his  golden  chariot,  and  sent  to  his  last 
sleep  beneath  the  waves."  * 

There  is  a  pause  upon  the  stage,  and  a  low  murmur 
of  expectancy  runs  through  the  audience,  as  the  Chorus 
respectfully  move  back  to  make  way  for  Clytemnestra, 
who  comes  forward  with  a  haughty  and  defiant  mien, 
and  whose  speech  shows  that  she  is  as  "  man-minded  " 
as  of  old.  She  at  wice  sharj^ly  rebukes  Electra  for 
taking  her  ease  abroad  in  the  absence  of  yEgisthus ; 
and  then  she  vindicates  her  murder  of  Agamemnon. 
He  had  slain  his  daughter,  and  she  had  only  slain  her 
husband  in  retaliation  ;  and  why  should  she  not  1 

Electra  is  not  slow  to  reply,  and  her  tone  and 
manner  are  as  defiant  and  insulting  as  her  mother's. 
It  was  the  wrath  of  Diana,  she  says,  reverting  to  a 
"  wasted  theme,"   and  the   contrary  winds  at  Aulis, 

•  Myrtilus  was  the  charioteer  of  (Enomaus,  and  was  bribec 
by  Pelops  to  take  out  the  linch-yiins  from  his  master's  chariot. 
Pelops  won  the  race,  but,  unwilling  to  give  him  hif  reward, 
threw  hiia  from  Cape  Geraestus. 


ELECTRA.  171 

that  forced  the  king,  sorely  against  his  will,  to  sacri- 
fice Iphigenia.  And  as  to  the  doctrine  of  "blood  for 
blood,"  if  it  were  put  in  force,  Clytcmnestra  herself 
would  be  the  first  victim.  "  Yes,"  says  the  maiden, 
with  a  fierce  look, 

"And  I  own, 
Had  I  but  strength,  be  sure  of  this,  'twere  done.* 

The  Chorus  stand  too  much  amazed  and  terrified  at 
this  stormy  altercation  between  mother  and  daughter 
to  olfer  advice,  or  even  to  speak,  and  at  last  Electra's 
passion  exhausts  itself.  She  turns  her  back  upon  her 
niotlier,  and  stands  aloof  in  gloomy  silence.  Then 
Clytcmnestra  makes  her  secret  prayer  to  the  Sun- 
god  :— 

"  Hear  thou  the  while,  Phcobus  who  guard'st  our  gates, 
My  secret  prayer  ;  for  not  to  friendly  ears 
Can  I  speak  forth,  nor  dare  I  breathe  in  air 
All  that  I  mean,  while  slie  stands  here  beside  me. 
Yet  hear  me — thus— as  I  with  he«d  will  speak. 
Those  visions  of  the  night,  whose  two-edged  sense 
I  dimly  read,— if  they  be  good,  O  King 
Grant  them  falfiliiic.nt  !  but,  if  they  be  evil, 
Then  launch  them  back  upon  mine  enemies ! 
And  if  there  be  who  by  their  cunning  plots 
Would  strip  me  of  this  wcaltli,  yufier  it  not ; 
But  grant  me  still,  living  an  unharmed  life, 
To  wield  the  sceptre  here  in  Atreus'  halls, 
Consorting  still  with  whom  I  consort  now, 
And  happy  in  such  children  as  may  nurse 
No  secret  hate  or  bitter  grudge  agiinst  me. 
Such  boon,  Apollo,  Slayer  of  the  wolf, 
Grant  of  thy  grace  as  fully  as  we  ask  it ! 
And,  for  the  rest,  even  though  I  be  silent, 


175  SOPHOCLES. 

Thou  art  a  god — and  needs  must  understand  me. 
For  they  see  all  things  who  are  born  of  Jove." 

It  would  seem  as  if  lier  prayers  were  to  te  quickly 
answered  ;  for  at  this  moment  the  old  attendant  enters, 
and  announces,  according  to  the  previous  agreement, 
the  death  of  Orestes.  Clytemnestra,  strangely  dis- 
turbed herself  hy  conflicting  feelings,  cuts  short  the 
bitter  cry  of  grief  which  bursts  from  the  lips  of  Electra, 
and  bids  the  messenger  tell  the  manner  of  his  death. 

Then  follows  a  false  but  closely  circumstantial 
account  of  the  death  of  Orestes  in  the  Pythian  games 
at  Delphi — a  tragedy  within  a  tragedy,  so  real  and 
Kfe-like,  that  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  it  is  not 
a  description  of  some  actual  catastrophe.  The  lists 
were  set,  says  the  supposed  Phocian  stranger ;  the 
herald  made  proclamation;  all  Greece  was  there;  every 
nation  had  sent  its  representatives,  and  among  them 
came  Orestes,  winning  the  hearts  of  the  spectators  by 
his  grace  and  noble  bearing.  His  achievements  on  the 
first  day  were  worthy  of  his  name  and  lineage,  for  he 
came  off  victorious  in  five  contests.  On  the  second 
day  followed  the  fatal  tournament  of  chariots,  in  which 
there  were  ten  competitors. 

"  Tliey  took  their  stand  where  the  appointed  judges 
Had  cast  their  lots  and  ranged  tlie  rival  cars. 
Rang  out  the  brazen  trump  !     Away  they  bound. 
Cheer  the  hot  steeds  and  shake  the  slackened  reins  ; 
As  with  a  body  the  large  space  is  tilled 
With  tlie  huge  clangour  of  the  battling  cars. 
High  whirl  aloft  the  dust-clouds  ;  blent  together, 
Each  presses  each,  and  the  lash  rings  ;  and  loud 


ELECTRA.  173 

Snort  the  wld  steeds,  and  from  their  fiery  breath 
Along  their  manes  anil  down  the  circling  wheels 
Scatter  the  foam." — (Lord  Lytton.) 

Six  times  they  had  roun<led  the  goal  at  the  end 
of  the  course ;  but  in  the  seventh  the  horses  of  one 
chariot  had  proved  unmanageable,  and  dashed  against 
the  next. 

"  Then  order  changed  to  ruin, 
Car  crashed  on  car  ;  the  wild  Crissa^an  plain 
Was  sea-like  strewed  with  wrecks  ;  the  Athenian  saw, 
Slackened  his  speed,  and,  wheeling  round  the  marge, 
Left  the  wild  tumult  of  that  tossing  storm. 
Behind  Orestes,  hitherto  the  last. 
Had  yet  kept  back  his  coursers  for  the  close  ; 
Now  one  sole  rival  left — on,  on  he  flew, 
And  the  sharp  sound  of  the  impelling  scourge 
Rang  in  the  keen  ears  of  the  flying  steeds. 
He  hears,  he  reaches — they  are  side  by  side — 
Now  one — the  other — by  a  length  the  victor. 
The  courses  all  are  past — the  wheels  erect — 
All  safe — when,  as  the  hurrying  coursers  round 
The  fatal  pillar  dashed,  the  wretched  boy 
Slackened  the  left  rein  :  on  the  column's  edge 
Crashed  the  frail  axle  :  headlong  from  the  car. 
Caught  and  all  meshed  within  the  reins,  he  fell ; 
And  masterless  the  mad  steeds  raged  along  ! 

Loud  from  that  mighty  multitude  arose 
A  shriek — a  shoxit !     But  yesterday  such  deeds, 
To-day  such  doom  !     Now  whirled  upon  the  earth. 
Now  his  limbs  dashed  aloft,  they  dragged  him — those 
Wild  horses — till  all  gory  from  the  wheels 
Released, — and  no  man,  not  his  nearest  friends, 
Could  in  that  mangled  corpse  have  traced  Orestes. 
They  laid  the  body  on  the  funeral-pyre  ; 


174  SOPHOCLES. 

And  while  we  speak,  the  Phocian  strangers  bear, 

In  a  small  brazen  melancholy  nrn, 

Tjiat  handful  of  cold  ashes  to  which  all 

The  grandeur  of  the  Beautiful  hath  shrunk. 

Hither  they  bear  him,  in  his  father's  land 

To  find  that  heritage — a  tomb  !" — (Lord  Lytton.) 

So  circumstantial  is  this  narrative,  that  no  doubt  is 
left  on  the  minds  of  the  hearers  as  to  its  truth.  Even 
Clytemnestra  is  touched  and  impressed  by  the  sudden 
end  of  one 

"  So  young,  so  noble,  so  unfortunate." — (P.) 

After  all,  she  is  a  woman  and  a  mother.  Orestes  is 
dead,  and  the  secret  prayer  of  her  heart  is  thus  ful- 
filled. Orestes  is  dead,  and  she  is  at  once  delivered 
from  those  terrors  which  had  haunted  her  sleep.  But, 
hardened  and  guilty  as  she  is,  there  is  sorrow  in  the 
thought  that  her  peace  of  mind  should  be  regained 
only  by  the  death  of  her  first-born,  "  the  child  of  her 
own  life."  "  Wondrous,"  she  exclaims,  almost  against 
her  will,  as  if  excusing  her  emotion- 

"  Wondrous  and  strange  the  force  of  motherhood  ! 
Though  wronged,  a  mother  cannot  hate  her  children." 

-rP.) 

It  is  a  finer  touch  like  this  which  stamps  the  poet. 
"  These  few  words  of  genuine  grief,"  says  Mr  Jebb, 
"  humanise,  and  therefore  dramatise,  Clytemnestra 
more  vividly  than  anything  in  iEschylus." 

But  the  queen's  better  nature  does  not  assert  itself 
for  long.     A  question  put  by  the  messenger   as  to 


ELECTRA.  175 

whether  his  news  be  not  welcome,  and  the  sight  of 
Electra's  unfeigned  sorrow,  rouse  in  her  a  feclin<T  of 
triumph  and  relief  Now  at  lust,  she  says,  she-  may 
sleep  soundly,  and  pass  her  days  in  peace.  Then, 
bidding  the  disguised  attendant  follow  her,  she  retires 
within  the  palace,  while  Electra  bemoans  her  own  fate, 
left  thus  desolate  and  friendless.  Her  day-dreams  of 
vengeance  have  come  to  an  end  for  ever,  since  the 
brother  on  whom  she  had  built  her  hopes  has  died 
cruelly,  trampled  to  death  under  horses'  feet,  in  a 
strange  land — 

"  By  strangers  honoured  and  by  strangers  mourned." 

Suddenly  Chrysothemis  runs  eaf'erly  in  with  what 
she  conceives  to  be  good  news.  She  had  found  her 
father's  tomb  covered  Avith  flowers,  and  moist  with 
freshly-poured  libations,  while  on  its  summit  lay  a 
lock  of  hair,  which  she  at  once  divines  to  be  a  token 
from  Orestes.  "  My  poor  sister  !  "  says  Electra,  "  your 
Orestes  is  dead  ; " — and  then  she  tells  the  story  she  has 
heard ;  but  though  he  be  dead,  she  continues,  let  us, 
women  as  Ave  are,  take  upon  ourselves  the  work  of 
vengeance,  and  earn  a  glorious  renoAvu  by  slaying 
iEgisthus,  our  mother's  paramour. 

"  All  men  love  to  look 
On  deeds  of  gooclness.     Dost  not  see  full  clear 
All  the  fair  fume  thou'lt  gain  for  thee  and  me, 
If  thou  obey  my  counsels  ?     Who,  seeing  us. 
Or  citizen  or  stranger,  will  not  greet  us 
With  praises  such  as  these  ;  '  Behold,  my  friends. 
Those  sisters  twain,  who  saved  their  father'B  house, 


176  SOPROCLES. 

And  on  their  foes  who  walked  in  pride  of  strengtli, 
Regardless  of  their  lives,  wrought  doom  of  death  ! 
These  all  must  love,  these  all  must  reverence  ; 
These  in  our  feasts,  and  when  the  city  meets 
In  full  assemblage,  all  should  honour  well 
For  this  their  manly  prowess.'     Thus  will  all 
Speak  of  us,  so  that  fame  we  shall  not  miss, 
Living  or  dying." — (P.) 

But  Chrysothemis  recoils  from  the  suggestion.  Her 
spirit  is  too  weak  to  venture  on  such  a  hazardous 
enterprise.  Besides,  she  says,  our  foes  are  stronger 
than  we  are  ; — 

"  And  nothing  does  it  help  or  profit  us, 
Gaining  fair  fame,  a  shameful  death  to  die." — (P.) 

Then  the  pretended   Phocians   enter,   carrying,  as 

they  say, 

"  In  one  small  urn 
All  that  is  left,  sad  relics  of  the  dead." — (P.) 

The  sight  only  increases  Electra's  sorrow,  for  it  con- 
firms what  she  had  at  first  hoped  might  have  been 
"only  an  evil  rumour.  She  takes  the  urn  from  the 
stranger — (we  must  remember  that  the  brother  and 
sister  had  not  met  for  years) — and  she  muses  over  her 
shattered  hopes,  and  over  the  untimely  death  of  the 
Orestes  whom  she  had  loved  with  such  devoted  afi"eo- 
tion :  * — 

•  An  anecdote  is  told  of  the  gi-eat  actor  Polus,  that  once, 
when  playing  the  part  of  Electra  (for  no  woman  ever  appeared 
on  the  Athenian  stage),  he  embraced  an  urn  containing  the  real 
ashes  of  a  much-loved  son  who  had  lately  died,  and,  afl'ected  by 


ELECTRA.  177 

"  But  now  all  joy  has  vanished  in  a  day 
In  this  thy  death,  for,  like  a  whirlwind,  thou 
Hast  passed  and  swept  off  all.     My  fatlier  falls ; 
I  perish  ;  thou  thyself  hast  gone  from  sight ; 
Our  foes  exult.     My  mother — wrongly  named, 
For  mother  she  is  none — is  mad  with  joy. 
•  •••••• 

How  hast  thou  brought  me  low,  thou  dearest  one  ! 
Therefore  receive  thou  me  to  this  thy  home, 
Ashes  to  ashes,  that  with  thee  below 
I  may  from  henceforth  dwell." — (P.) 

Then  the  disguised  stranger  knows  that  this  maiden 
— noble  even  in  her  mean  dress — must  be  his  sister ; 
and  his  heart  yearns  towards  her,  and  he  can  contain 
himself  no  longer.  Ho  burns  with  indignation  as  he 
looks  on  one  whom  he  had  left  a  light-hearted  and  inno- 
cent girl,  now  worn  and  wasted,  as  she  says  herself, 
"  By  blows,  by  hardships,  and  all  forms  of  ill." 

"  Funeral  urns,"  he  cries,  "  are  not  for  the  living,  and 
Orestes  is  alive."  Then  he  shows  his  father's  signet- 
ring,  and  Electra  knows  that  he  must  be  indeed  her 
brother.  The  haughty  spirit  which  had  defied  ^gis- 
thus,  and  repaid  the  queen  with  scorn  for  scorn,  is  at' 
once  softened.  She  bursts  into  tears,  and  with  Avild 
exclamations  of  joy  throws  herself  into  the  arms  of 
"her  OAvn,  her  dear  Orestes." 

Even  when  told  through  the  cold  medium  of  a  dead 
language — without  a  stage  direction,  without  the  aid 
of  dress  or  scenery — no  "recognition"  in  any  drama 

uncontrollable  emotion,  burst  into  genuine  tears,  and  uttered 
a  cry  of  sorrow  which  deeply  moved  the  sympathies  of  the 
audience. 

A.  o.   vol.  X.  M 


178  SOPHOCLES. 

comes  up  to  the  simple  reality  of  this,  although  critics 
may  ohject  that  it  is  not  in  the  highest  style  of  art.* 

But  this  is  not  a  time  for  caresses  and  emhraces. 
Orestes  remembers  that  there  is  sterner  work  before 
them,  and  that 

"  Much  speech  might  lose  occasion's  golden  hour." — (P.) 

And  while  Electra  still  clings  to  her  brother,  as  though 
loath  to  leave  him  even  for  a  moment,  the  old  attendant 
roiighly  breaks  in  upon  their  dialogue.  Are  they 
weary  of  their  lives,  he  asks,  that  they  stand  thus 
idly  prating  on  the  brink  of  danger  1  It  is  Avell  that 
he  has  kept  good  watch.  Let  them  go  in,  and  they 
will  find  Clytemnestra  alone  within  the  palace.  Then 
Orestes  and  Pylades  obey  his  advice  and  enter.  For 
a  while  there  is  a  dead  silence ;  but  suddenly  the 
silence  is  broken  by  a  Avoman's  shriek,  and  Electra 
turns  exultingly  to  the  Chorus  : — 

"  A  cry  goes  up  within  ;  friends,  hear  ye  not  ? 

Cho.  I  heard  what  none  should  hear — ah,  misery  ! — 
And  shuddered  listening. 

Clytem.  {vrithin.)  Ah  me  !  ah  me  !     Woe,  woe  ! 

.^gisthus,  where  art  thou  ? 

Ulec.  Ha  !     List  again. 

I  hear  a  hitter  cry. 

Clytem.  (within.)  My  son,  my  sou, 
Have  inty  on  thy  mother  ! 

Ulec.  Thou  hadst  none 

On  him,  nor  on  the  father  that  begat  him. 

•  Aristotle  (Poet.  xi.  30)  calls  recognition  by  signs  "most 
inartistic." 


ELECTRA.  179 

Clytem.  (within.)  Ah,  I  am  smitten  ! 

Elec.  Smite  her  yet  again, 

If  thou  hast  strength  for  it. 

Clytem.  {within.)  Ah  !  blow  on  hlow  ! 

Elec.  Would  that  iEgisthus  shared  them  ! 

Cho.  Yes  ;  the  curse 

Is  now  fulfilled.     The  buried  live  again  ; 
For  they  who  died  long  since  now  drain  in  turn 
The  blood  of  those  that  slew  them."— (P.) 

The  shrieks  from  within  have  grown,  fainter  and 
fainter ;  and  then  follows  the  stillness  of  the  grave, 
until  Orestes  and  Pylades  come  forth  from  the  palace, 
carrying  their  swords  unsheathed  and  dripping  with 
blood.  Almost  at  the  same  moment  ^Egisthus  is 
seen  coming  from  the  country,  and  Electra  hurriedly 
pushes  back  her  brother  and  his  friend  behind  the 
scene.  The  usurper  has  heard  on  the  way  a  rumour  of 
the  death  of  Orestes,  and  is  radiant  with  triumphant 
joy.  He  asks  for  the  Phocian  strangers,  that  he  may 
hear  these  good  tidings  from  their  own  lips.  "  And  so 
they  really  report,"  he  asks  Electra,  half  incredulously, 
"that  your  brother  is  dead?"  "You  may  see  the 
corpse,"  is  her  guarded  answer.  Then  he  bids  the 
palace-doors  be  thrown  open,  that  all  Mycen®  may 
behold  the  welcome  sight.  The  set  scene  in  the 
background  opens,  and  the  interior  of  the  palace 
is  discovered.  There,  on  a  bier,  lies  a  body  covered 
with  a  veil. 

"  ^gis.  Great  Jove  !  a  grateful  spectacle — if  thus 
May  it  be  said  unsinning  ;  yet  if  she. 
The  awful  Nemesis,  be  nigh  and  hear, 


180  SOPHOCLES. 

I  do  recall  the  sentence.     Raise  the  pall, — 
The  dead  was  kindred  to  me,  and  shall  know 
A  kinsman's  sorrow. 

Ores.  Lift  thyself  the  pall  j 

Not  mine,  but  thine,  the  ofBce  to  survey- 
That  which  lies  mute  beneath,  and  to  salute, 
Lovingly  sad,  the  dead  one. 

jEgis.  Be  it  so, — 

It  is  well  said.     Go  thou  and  call  the  queen. 
Is  she  within  ? 

Ores.  Look  not  around  for  her, — 

She  is  beside  thee."^ — (Lord  Lytton.) 

Then  ^gisthus  lifts  tlie  veil,  and  recognises  the 
body  of  Clytemnestra.  He  knows  at  once  that  it  must 
be  Orestes  who  stands  before  him,  and  that  he  is  a 
doomed  man.  "  Let  me  speak  one  little  word,"  he 
pleads ;  but  Electra  fiercely  cuts  him  short,  and  bids 
her  brother  "  slay  him  out  of  hand,  and  cast  his  body 
to  the  dogs  and  vultures  :  " — 

"  Qu'il  tombe,  11  en  est  temps,  sous  vos  glaives  vengeurs  ! 
Que  son  corps  soit  prive  des  funebres  honneurs  ! 
Atix  oiseaux  devorants  qu'il  serve  de  pature, 
Et  trouve  dans  leurs  flancs  sa  digne  sepulture  !  "  * 

Orestes  accordingly  forces  him  within  the  palace,  that 
the  murderer  may  die  by  the  son's  hand  on  the  same 
spot  where  the  father  had  fallen.  And  thus  "  poetical 
justice  elevates  what  on  the  modern  stage  would  haA'e 
been  but  a  spectacle  of  physical  horror  into  the  deeper 
terror  and  sublimer  gloom  of  a  moral  awe ;  and  vin- 

*  From  the  '  Electre  '  of  M.  Leon  HalSvy,  acted  on  the  btage 
at  Paris  in  1863  and  1865. 


ELECTRA.  181 

dictive  murder,  losing  its  aspect,  is  idealised  and  hal- 
lowed into  a  relicfious  sacrifice."  * 

In  an  ancient  epigram,  a  statue  of  Bacchus  (the 
patron  god  of  the  drama)  is  supposed  to  shadow  and 
protect  the  tomb  of  Sophocles.  This  statue  holds  in 
its  hands  a  mask,  representing  a  woman's  face  of  per- 
fect beauty.  "  Whose  face  is  that  1 "  asks  a  passer-by, 
"  The  face  of  Antigone,"  is  the  answer ;  "  or,  if  you 
prefer  it,  that  of  Electra.  You  can  make  your  choice, 
for  both  are  masterpieces." 

*  Lord  Lytton's  Athens,  ii.  568. 


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